


Scars

by Spades24



Series: Forever fallen [2]
Category: Biker Mice From Mars
Genre: Abuse, Alien Biology, F/M, Imprisonment, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con References, Sequel, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 147,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spades24/pseuds/Spades24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Limburger is gone, Charley is missing, and the mice are left facing their worst nightmare. Sequel to the series Alternative Endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight or fight

**Author's Note:**

> If you are about to read this and you haven't read any of my other stories, you will in the very least need to go and read chapters 2-5 (the pits) and 21 (once upon a time on Mars) of my Alternative Endings series, or else you won't have any of the background to this story (reading the whole of A.E. is recommended for other references that crop up).

He couldn't understand why they just stood there. They had fought against the odds many times before, and they still had their laser weapons to hand even if they didn't have their bikes.  _But he showed you why... he showed you what happened. They're afraid, too afraid to move. Oh god bros just move, you need to move... NOW!_

They weren't moving though. They were stood stock-still, frozen to the spot as if dazzled by the oncoming glare of headlights, unable to tear themselves away from facing their greatest fear of all. Deep inside their minds they knew they should run, or fight...  _or something_. But they couldn't. They were absolutely terrified, and the feeling was so overwhelming it wiped away all traces of sense and reason.

The white mouse stood there between his bros and the man who held their gaze. He had seen the history between them, and experienced the emotion and pain they had felt. But it wasn't his own memories inside his mind, and unlike his two friends they had not scarred him so deeply that it tore into the very fabric of his soul. He was still free and clear thinking. And he still had his weapon.

"Don't come any closer... stay back, don't you dare move any closer!" The words were accompanied by a low growl, and Vinnie bared his sharp teeth at the men in front of him and raised his gun, trying to make himself look as threatening as possible. He would defend his bros to the death if he had to.

_It's up to me now... I have to protect them... They can't do it for themselves, but I can. Or at least I can try._

The man was laughing now. He was enjoying the effect his presence was having on the three mice. He could see that his ex-slaves were crumbling at the very sight of him, which pleased him greatly, but what he really found amusing was the reaction of the third mouse.

_He's the one who broke them out... but now it's my turn. Oh yes, dear mouse, this time it will be me who breaks **you.** _

The Pit Boss had only caught a glimpse of the white-furred Martian as he tore though the deep trenches of his kingdom, racing to the rescue of the captive mice, but he had no doubt that this was the same being; the one who was now trying to guard those same two furry bodies from him.

"Ooh, look here boys we got ourselves a fighter." The thugs gathered behind him began fanning out around the tunnel, slowly repositioning themselves around the mice, blocking any possible route of escape.

"I said don't come any nearer.  Stay back or i'll... i'll..." Vinnie realised he was stepping further back himself, placing himself right in front of his bros in order to shield them from the object of their nightmares.

"Or you'll do what, mouse? Hmm? What exactly do you think you can do?  Do you think you can save them? Do you think you can stop me from getting to them?" The Pit Boss was advancing, his yellowed, broken teeth displayed in his own bared grin, the long flex in his gripping hands swaying with the same menace the man himself possessed.

Vinnie backed up even further, spreading his arms wide, making his body into as large a barrier as possible.  _Come on bros, pleeease... snap out of it, we need to move now, before it's too late..._

They were now almost completely surrounded. The white mouse hadn't noticed the goons that had stealthily manoeuvred around behind his two friends, and he only realised the game was up when both of them cried out as they were finally seized.

That adrenalin was still flooding his system, and his muscles and heart were practically drowning with the hormone, desperately urging him to flee or to fight. He was trapped so he had to do the latter; he had no choice. Quick as lightning he spun round and threw himself onto the nearest thug, the one who was holding Modo, and sunk his large front teeth into the man's arm. For a moment the grey mouse was released as the man grappled with the ferocity of the furred body that was fighting him with; but it was short lived.

As the butt of the rifle connected with his skull, Vinnie screamed in fury, and horror. Even with the blood seeping down the back of his head and neck, and with the blurring across his watering eyes, he tried again and again to reach his two bros, trying to pull the jeering louts away from them. Trying... but failing.

He was overcome. There were too many of them, and soon he was pinned to the floor, with his arms wrenched behind his back so that they could bind him.

"Noooo, nooooo, leave them alone! Let them go! Take me but let them go!" His voice was fevered, frantic even, but the pleas it issued were futile. Throttle and Modo were being led away unresisting, already cuffed tightly in strong restraints of their own, their heads drooped down low. "Noooo, bros!"

"See, now what did I say?  Did you really think you could stop me? You think I should let them go and just take you? No, no... I think not." The balding, staple-headed monster stood over the third of the three humanoid mice, gloating at how easily he had been vanquished.

"You see,  _mouse_ , they know who's in charge here.  They know who they belong to now, just as they did back then. They belong to me, and there is nothing you can do to change that." He bent low, breathing his foul odour into the glaring white-furred face at his feet. "And ever since that day you stole my property from me I have been waiting for you. You took my slaves and destroyed my home, and now you will pay the price for your misdeeds. You owe me your life... and now it's  _mine_."

* * *

What was that noise... where was it coming from? In the pressing darkness there was a sound... but no... no, it was gone again.

_What the hell happened? Where the hell am I?_

Moments before there had been a deep rumble as the walls caved in, a loud crashing as the ceiling fell, an ominous rushing as the passageway had filled with debris. For the briefest of seconds there had been a crushing numbness as the tunnels collapsed inwards, and then, suddenly, it had disappeared.

_Am I dead.? Am I dead and buried or am I alive... and trapped?_

She couldn't cry out. Something was in her mouth, but she couldn't discern the texture of what was stopping her for shouting for help.

_Oh heck... Guys?  Where are you? I need you!_

She wondered for a moment if that other sound was them, but then if it was why had it stopped? They would never leave her.   _He would never leave me... not now, surely?_

She couldn't think any more; her head was fuzzy, confused... she felt so tired. Nothing made any sense; she didn't know what was happening. She felt herself slipping away again, her mind numbed as was her body, drifting back down away from consciousness, and away from life.

* * *

The voice that spoke to them sliced through like a carving knife to their hearts. A voice that two of them had hoped to never have to hear again. A voice that sent dread through their bodies, fear coursing through their veins, and terror burning through their very fibres. The voice of the one who had once taken their freedom and their dignity. The one who now stood before them, declaring once more his authority over their lives. Their lives... those would never been the same again.

They had been led down the rough-walled tunnel, unable to bring themselves to fight against their captors, listening helplessly as the one who had tried in vain to defend them was being subdued. They knew they should have done the same for him, for themselves, but the paralysing panic that had prevented that had now also doomed their only hope of escape. Vinnie had been taken.

The smaller mouse was still struggling though. The entire way down the clear passageway he kicked out at those trying to hold him, gnashing at their hands with his teeth, swiping at their legs and faces with his tail.

They knew it would only be a matter of time before they put a stop to that as well.

_We're so sorry bro, we're so, so sorry... Don't fight them, please don't give them an excuse to hurt you too._

If Vinnie had recognised the danger he might have been more co-operative, but he was still determined to get free and save his defenceless friends, and he didn't care what it cost him.

Lucky for him the Pit Boss was enjoying the spirit his new prisoner was showing.  _If he has this much energy now, just think of what I can make him do with it later..._

"Boss, this rat's going to take someone's fingers off here." One of the cronies trying to drag the white-furred mouse had just received a deep bite on one of his knuckles, and was swearing loudly as his face was then also whacked by the long, flexible tail.

"Well why don't you stop him then?"

Their leader was giving the go-ahead for them to apply a little more force to their charge, and they were eager to oblige. Vinnie was back on the floor, a knee shoved between his shoulder blades, pressing him down so hard with the man's weight he could hardly breathe. And this became even more difficult when had they swiftly tied his snapping muzzle shut. They had used a thin cord, an old shoelace, and it cut into the bridge of his snout as they tightened it. He moaned when they finished the gag by tying it off around behind his ears, preventing any chance that he might dislodge it from his around his mouth.

"What about his tail fellas, sick of the thing getting in the way?" This particular thug seemed to be in charge of the rest, and they grinned at him as he indicated that they also do something with the thrashing, prehensile appendage.  _It might come in handy later, better just tie it down for now._

Soon another set of shoelaces had been produced, and the long, muscled 'limb' was strapped tightly to the mouse's leg.

"Good job boys.  Pit Boss is gunna be wanting this one back in one piece... for now." The head goon guffawed at the now defenceless mouse. He knew his employer had plans for this one, but he felt sure it wouldn't be too long before they got to have some fun with him.  _Let's see how long that rat keeps his tail; at this rate it won't be for much longer._

The tunnel system was more extensive than any of the three mice had realised. They stumbled onwards for well over an hour before they reached any further signs of life, but when they did what greeted them made their hearts sink in dismay. This wasn't the Pits, but it may as well have been. The subterranean civilisation (if you could call it that) that had been all but destroyed by themselves and their other human ally, a man by the name of Four-by, appeared to have been re-created in this new, bigger underground base. A fresh empire for the Pit Boss to lord over, filled as before with all the low-lives, thieves and felons the city had ever produced.  Those, that is, that did not already work for the foul-smelling fish that was Limburger.

This place even had a brand new castle (still not quite complete), a veritable fortress looming over the smaller dwellings scattered around it in the dark depths. The three mice noted these also, alarmingly, included a substantial-looking prison, which was already well occupied by a large population of slaves. Even though the mice and their human comrade had effectively freed all the people interred within the original cratered trench, it seemed that the pit crew had since been busy recruiting the latest bunch of unpaid workers.

_Holy crap... this place is huge..._

They took it all in; the chiselled stone wall of the vast cavern, the radiating tunnels from its centre, and the giant slave-built castle. And the huge, oppressive mining pit, filled with those poor people who had shed blood and tears and sweat; working for the merciless monster who had claimed them for his own, stealing their lives, taking their freedom and replacing it with misery and dejection.

This is what was awaiting them now. This would be the rest of their lives, and they would know nothing else until the day they died. It was a desolate forecast; a terrible, terrible fate.

_Oh bros why didn't you run, why didn't you fight back? It's too late now... it's too late, and I can't help you this time. No one can. No one._

The helpless heroes were led past the mine and the prison, past the people they would no doubt soon be joining, onwards towards the gloomy-looking abode where their captor now resided. They ascended the rough-cut steps and in through the heavy wooden doors, down the cool, dull corridor and into the belly of the beastly building. They were taken into the core of where the Pit Boss lived, right towards the pedestal on which he placed himself as ruler.

He lowered himself into the throne he had had installed for him, his sizeable gut protruding over his massive, well-muscled legs, and reclined himself comfortably onto the granite-block chair as if it was padded with thick, soft cushions.

His prisoners had been deposited at his feet, and after a moment's rest he leant forwards to examine them.

"Ah yes... just where I want you... and how very nice of you to remember me,  _rat boys_." His voice crooned, delicately savouring the moment. He had waited a long time for this, and he was going to make sure he made the most of every single second he had those wretched vermin back at his behest.

Two of the kneeling figures kept their eyes low. They knew better than to dare look the man above them in the face. Inside their minds was a shared knowledge, a memory, a warning.  _Don't look up, don't show him you're afraid, and definitely, definitely do_ _ **not**_ _disobey him_.

However, the third figure had no such internal message, but he was nonetheless locked in a furious mental debate. He had seen what the foul fiend had done to his friends the last time they met. He knew the end result, no matter how well-behaved they had tried to be. Interred in a prison for the body and soul, stripped of all semblance of respect; branded with humiliation, desperation,  _separation_. But the chance to save his bros from repeating their tortured history had passed, and now he was facing the same awful dilemma they had once had.  _Do I continue to fight back, or will my actions doom those closest to me?_ A terrible choice, yet he looked up at the grotesque gargoyle with his face full of defiance.

"And you... you may not know how things work around here, but you will learn soon enough i'm sure." The Pit Boss stroked his stubbled chin, as if trying to decide the best way to teach the bold young mouse his position in their brutal hierarchy.

"I heard somewhere the best way is to learn by example, and lucky for you we have two experts right here to show you what you have to do... and more importantly,  _what happens when you don't._ "

Vinnie gulped, and glanced at the silent figures of his two, trembling companions. He knew in that moment that his choice had been made for him. He couldn't bear the thought of being responsible for anything bad happening to his two bros. He would keep quiet, for now, and do as he was told. But when the time came, he thought, he wouldn't hesitate to rip the repellent creature limb from limb, and make him pay for everything he had ever done to harm his closest friends.


	2. See what I see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to the other people down in that cavern...?

At last she was able to open her eyes. The light above her was bright, and her head throbbed as the fluorescent glow burned through her dilated pupils unimpeded, her jade green irises sluggish in response to the strong stimulant above.

_Aaah... what the-?_

She sat up on the small cot, the sudden change in posture making the pounding headache she had ten times worse.

_Urgh... oh god... i'm going to..._

Stumbling on her shaking legs, the woman managed to just about reach the porcelain-like bowl before she vomited. She then slumped down onto the cold, tiled floor, regretting having gotten up so quickly from the little bunk she had woken on.

After a while her eyes opened again, slowly this time, and she was able to visually explore her new surroundings without losing anymore of her stomach's churning contents.

_Where on Earth am I? And oh man... what is that smell?_

It was a familiar odour, an unpleasant stench that reminded her of someone she knew... or rather someone she wished she didn't know.

_It can't be... it can't be him, we left him behind.  He didn't make it out of there surely?_

The plain logic behind her own survival hit her like a semi-truck. If she was here, alive, then it was quite possible he was too. Unless...

_Oh no... please not that..._

Charley lifted her head and focused on the shadowy form on the other side of the barred door. It had blue-green skin, covered with a layer of dull, overlapping scales, and where its ears should have been there were several rows of beating gills. The guard at her cell was not human, and she was not on Earth anymore. She was on Plutark, several billion miles away from everything, and everyone, she knew. And as far as she could tell she had made this journey on her own.

_Guys... where are you? Do you even know i'm out here?_

The last thing the human mechanic remembered was being dislodged from the red racer, the force of its sharp swerves to avoid the collapsing cave having thrown her from her seat. She had tried to follow it on foot, but everywhere she had turned her way was blocked, and no matter how loudly she screamed for her retreating friends to come back for her, they hadn't heard her in the chaos. Moments later the ceiling and the walls had come down around her, and as far as she had been aware she had been trapped there in the rubble.

_I must have passed out, goodness knows for how long... Maybe they did come looking.  Maybe that is what I heard down there._

But how she had ended up on this other planet when she was meant to be under a pile of rock and soil she had no idea. Whatever happened, she wasn't sure if this place was actually any better than where she had come from. From what the three mice had told her, Plutarkian prisons were not the kind of place an alien species would be locked up in for very long. The fish tended to keep their longer-term, non-native captives in off-world camps, and it was quite possible she was in one of these and not on the home planet of the enemy race itself.

She had almost convinced herself this was the case when, from almost out of nowhere, came a quiet, musing voice.

"Lovely place this, isn't it? Those bothersome bikers thought so too... until they had to check out that is."

Charley scrambled to her feet again. Her tired eyes had not noticed there were also bars at the far side of her cell, and that on the other side of them the adjoining one was in fact also occupied.

"Who's there...? Who are you...?"

"My dear I must say I am quite offended, you can't have forgotten me already, not after the extensive history we share..."

The voice had that silky, simpering tone of a businessman-come-politician. And there was only one person she knew who it could possibly belong to.

"Limburger?"

"Oh so you do remember?  I'm so glad."

"What are you doing here? Uh... where is here? Where the hell are we you reeking lard-butt, where have you taken me and what have you done with my friends?"

The infuriating flounder kept on with his teasing. He was quite enjoying the angry yet confused manner his neighbour was displaying. As annoying as she was, she was in the least something more entertaining than staring blankly at the bare walls.

"What you mean you haven't guessed? And I thought you were the clever one."

"I did guess, actually, but I didn't want to believe it. This place stinks worse than you cheese-face, I can't believe you would ever want to come back here."

"Well it's not like I had much choice, if you hadn't noticed." The Plutarkian didn't sound so smooth now, and Charley could practically feel the irritation in his words, which barely masked the tiny trace of worry in their undertones. "Now how long until those aggravatingly heroic hamsters come to the rescue? I really must get back... things to do, you know?"

She wasn't sure what shocked her most, that Limburger was just as much of a prisoner as she, or that he had just more or less asked that he be saved along with her.

"Err and what makes you think they're going to help you? You just tried to kill them and then steal Earth from under their feet? Not to mention what you did to Mars. You're dreaming if you think they can just ignore that little detail."

_That meddling woman might have a point there, but it's still worth a try._

The fish continued with his reasoning. "Because, you arrogant Earthling, if you don't take me home with you I am fairly sure my successor will make short work of that paltry rock you call home in my absence..." He paused. He had one more option, and the trump card in his hand was just waiting to be played. "And besides,  _they owe me_ , or had you conveniently forgotten that too?"

Sometimes being a villain meant he had to make compromises. On more than one occasion he had decided that saving the biker mice from their own peril would give him a longer term advantage, and this was it. He needed help now, and knowing those three Martians they would not turn against their own code of honour, not even for someone like him. At least that's what he was counting on.

* * *

_Don't react, don't fight back... Oh man this is so hard... too hard..._

The minutes were ticking away, the seconds rushing by, the moment to make a difference long gone in the wake of their abduction. The hours ahead would be long, the days longer. How much longer?

_It's only been half an hour but already i'm ready to leave... but I can't, not without them._

If he didn't make a move soon it could be ages before he got another chance. But if he acted now... he didn't want to think about the repercussions if he failed.

 _I can't, for their sake... I have to do what he wants, even if it kills me_.

He hated watching the way his friends just sat there, knelt there even, the strange power this hateful villain had over them was incredible. The transformation from brave, strong-willed heroes, ready for action, ready to do whatever it took to save their human friend,  _to_   _this_. He could hardly believe it.  Didn't _want_ to believe it.

_Oh Charley, wherever you are, whatever happened to you, I hope you never have to see this.  I'm so sorry but i'm glad you're not here to see what i'm seeing._

His bros were locked inside their fear, trapped by the terror residing in their memories, and ensnared by their own feelings that they had buried but were now resurfacing. Even though they had a few cuts and bruises from falling into the deep, underground burrows, and from their race to escape them as they collapsed, all three were still physically very fit. They could have fought. They could have fled. But only one tried, and it had not been enough.

_Don't let them do this bros, please don't let them._

They couldn't hear him, their minds were locked against his thoughts, their senses fogged and impenetrable. Vinnie watched helplessly as the window closed, and the door to freedom slammed shut behind them.

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me how we got here, because if you're not then I would rather you just shut up."  _You insufferably sanctimonious pig._

Charley leant back against the wall with her arms folded across her chest. She had made it back to the fold-down bed, and slumped herself down onto it, putting as much distance between her and the source of the disgusting smell from across the way.

"Isn't it obvious, you hapless human, we were brought here. Transported I guess. If we hadn't then don't you think we would still be buried under several feet of rock?"

"So we weren't dug out then?"

"Honestly, you must be confusing my species with something else... say... moles, or even those rodents you seem to like so much." The fat fish rolled his eyes. "Just because we dig up planets to steal the dirt doesn't mean we don't have  _other_ ways of doing things."

"So if it wasn't you then...who? Who would take both you and me out of there?"  _And what about the rest of them?  The goons, the mice... were they transported out too?_

The woman rubbed her eyes. She was still very sleepy, and her head was still aching. Nothing the masked man in the cell next to her made any sense. She could understand Limburger being rescued by his own kind, or else escaping using one of Karbunkle's portable transporter devices. She could understand herself being kidnapped, too, although it would be more likely to be the mice than her. But the Plutarkian was in a prison on his own world, which suggested something else entirely.

"Oh for goodness sake, do I have to spell it out for you?"  _They must have really messed with her brain before shoving her in here... must be Karbunkle's doing... where is that devious dolt anyway?_

"Yeah, you do, because otherwise I am going to tell the guys why exactly they shouldn't bother getting you out of here. You only get a free ticket to safety if you stop being such an asshole." She didn't say 'to Earth' or 'home' because she was going to make damn sure he never set foot on her planet again.

"Oh very well, fine."  _And she's accusing me of being obnoxious_. "Camembert had someone monitoring the Tug Transformer, and probably me too."  _Darn that mistrusting monarch, he must have known I would fail again._  Limburger sighed. This whole thing was just typical of his particularly tumultuous life. "When things went wrong they yanked me out of there, and you must have just been caught in the portal's field. So there. It was an accident that you are here, but i'm sure my fellow fish don't quite see it like that."

"But... why are you in prison? You've screwed up plenty of times before, why now?"

"Take a look outside, do you really think i'm just getting a slap on this wrist this time? Those mice may have saved your pathetic little planet, but they did a pretty good job blowing up half of mine in the process."

Charley pulled herself up so she could peer through the tiny barred window. She had no idea what this place was meant to look like, after all they had already strip-mined it to practically a wasteland without any help from anyone else. But seeing the orange glow in the murky sky, with the thick, spiralling stacks of smoke lining the horizon... and the ash raining down over the prison courtyard... It reminded her of the fallout from a massive volcanic eruption.  _Jeez... the Tug Transformer must have hit them like a mechanical, jet-propelled asteroid._

Plutark was already an unsightly mess, but the force of the planet-moving machine hitting its rocky crust had all but plunged it into a nuclear-style winter. If it wasn't for their vast array of advanced technology, and their uncanny ability to live in such a dump anyway, this place would probably be almost uninhabitable.

Charley could not help but think such a greedy, unfeeling race deserved to know what it was like to be at the other end of the stick for a change, but even she knew that not  _all_  the people here were the same. If it hadn't been for the caring actions of a few, her friends would have been executed in the very prison she was now locked in, and her home would mostly likely be orbiting this world as its newest moon.

As much as she loathed the majority of Plutarkians and what they stood for, not even she, nor her Martian friends, would be so callous as to celebrate almost driving another species to the brink of extinction.


	3. Exposed

So this is what it felt like. He had been a prisoner before, but never like this. This was something totally different, something far worse than being taken prisoner during the war to a Plutarkian camp, and worse even than being held in Karbunkle's laboratory and experimented on. In all those previous times that he had been captured, he had at least still been treated like a person on some level. But not here.

He looked across as his two friends. He desperately wanted to talk to them, to ask them... no... no, he couldn't do that. He couldn't ask  _them_  how they felt, he wasn't sure he would really want to know anyway. From what he could see, they probably did not feel too good at all.

The light levels in this place were low at the best of times, but now that it was night (or so he guessed from the activity of the pit crew and others living down here) the electric-powered bulbs around the prison were being turned off, and the only remaining source of illumination was from the flickering candles within the lanterns on the walls, or from the torches carried by the guards on their rounds.

It wasn't the darkness that bothered him though, nor even the cold, for he at least had his fur coat to protect him. But others here were not so lucky, and from the shadows came the whimpers of those who clearly were suffering from the plunging temperatures. This cave system was, necessarily, very well ventilated, which also meant it was not free from the influence of the outside conditions. However, even in the height of summer this place would not be warm, and even minor fluctuations in climate down here tended to range from rather cool to really quite chilly.

Vinnie curled himself up into a ball, tucking his tail in between his legs and around his stomach, drawing his knees up to his chest with his arms nestled underneath, the iron shackles around his wrists buried with them. He pressed his little black nose into the fur of those limbs, reducing the surface area of his body open to the cold.

There was nothing else he could do. He had no bedding, or blankets, nor even straw to keep him off the freezing floor. And he had no clothing either, for that had been taken away at the first chance they had got.

He grimaced at the memory. At least that had been all they had taken from him. His bros had not been so fortunate.

They had been kneeling at the foot of the Pit Boss's throne when he had waved his hand to his waiting underlings. He didn't have to give a verbal order, they already knew what was expected of them.

Soon they had the tan mouse in their grasp, first ripping his leather jacket from his back, before tearing off all the little things he had adorned himself with: his wrist band, his bandanas, the cestus on his right hand, the studs in his ears. They were none too careful with those, and specks of blood had trickled down his facial fur, the pointed jewellery nicking his lobes as they were forcefully yanked free. They took away his field specs, revealing the multitude of emotions showing in his red-ringed eyes as he was stripped bare one article at a time. Finally, they had loosened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, and pulled the denim jeans down away from his legs. Once again Throttle was completely naked, and lay there on the hard stone at his captor's feet, exposed and vulnerable.

The white mouse had watched all this with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. Sure, he had seen his two friends clothesless before, such as when he had set them free from the Pits the last time, but watching the process of them being disrobed made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. And this feeling only got worse when the giggling group moved onto the second mouse. They peeled everything away from Modo's body, including the shoulder pad covering the join to his bionic arm, unearthing the flesh and wire connections between the limb and its socket. They did, however, though why exactly the mouse could not tell, leave Modo with his leather eye patch.

When they turned their attentions on him Vinnie couldn't help himself. He wasn't letting them take his things without a fight, and when they started tugging on his bandoleers he tried to roll away from them. They quickly piled on top to hold him still; but when it came to taking off his pants, they had little choice but to release his tail.

Vinnie had managed to give most of the men a hard slap in the face before something stopped him quite abruptly.

"I warn you mouse, if you don't bring that thing under control I will have no hesitation in doing it for you...  _permanently_."

The fat crone's caution was accompanied by a number of his subordinates sniggering and whispering to each other. Vinnie caught the words 'cut off' from several of them, and instantly froze. Having no clothes was infinitely more preferable than having no tail.

Eventually the white-furred body was uncovered in its entirety, though he still tried to shield certain parts of him from the countless pairs of eyes all staring down at where he crouched.

This did not please the brooding brute in front of him one bit.

"Did I say you could cover yourself from me,  _rat_?" The Pit Boss heaved himself off his seat so that he could get a better look at his new prisoner. He was intrigued by them anyway; he had never seen another humanoid species before, and these ones in particular fascinated him. There was only so much of their anatomy that they shared with humans, it seemed, and this part wasn't included _. I'd say they were more rodent than human... whatever they are... not that it really matters._

Vinnie's eyed widened as the goons were signalled once again, and he was rolled onto his back, his arms still bound behind him. They held him down so that his legs were splayed wide, and the hulking henchman lowered himself down to further his inspection.

Through the lace gag the mouse grunted in revulsion as he felt the grubby palm explore his body, and he positively choked when the hand then took hold of him.

"Hmm, yes... how very interesting." He straightened up again, hauling his heavy frame back to his feet, and glanced back down at the prone figure. "Don't you ever think you can hide from me, rat, your body belongs to me and I decide who sees it, or who touches it, not you. Understand?"

The trembling mouse nodded vigorously. He felt sick to the stomach at the breach of his personal space, his  _very personal_  space, but he wasn't going to argue.

Throughout this whole process the two other mice had been much more cooperative. They hadn't even made a sound as they were stripped, they just let it happen, their faces almost expressionless. But this was about to change.

The Pit Boss gave another silent signal, and a man approached from a doorway to the back of the room trailing a number of long wires. In his hands were half a dozen or so small objects from which these originated, although the cables were not long enough for them to reach the centre of the large chamber. The things were set down on the floor some way away, and then the man retreated back to his position by the door.

Another signal. Throttle was again grabbed roughly by two of the waiting thugs, and dragged over to where these mysterious articles had been left. Four more joined them, and each took one of the wired things with a look of utmost delight.

Someone produced a small key, and a single cuff was removed to allow the mouse's arms to be re-chained in front of him, and then pinned down above his head.

The Pit Boss rubbed his grimy mitts with almost childlike glee. "There is something in particular that I have here that makes this whole thing oh so much more... official." He strolled over to the tan-furred mouse, and gazed down at him with a triumphant menace in his eyes.

" _Shave him_."

Throttle cried out softly as the clippers whirred over his thick pelt; and as the tufts of soft hair began to fall away from him, a large, shining mark began to show. Before long the hideous purple scar was revealed, a set of two letters permanently etched into his skin, a declaration of his enslavement.  **PB**. The man who had claimed ownership of him the day that burning iron had been pressed against his thigh and branded him thus.

"Aha... so it is still there. For a moment I thought I was going to have to mark you again."

The men had paused their work to take a look at their boss's insignia, but he apparently didn't want them to stop. He indicated that they carry on, and after a while every last strand had been cut from the mouse's body, exposing a multitude of other healed wounds that were hidden on his skin, and leaving him more naked than he had ever been in his life - at least since he was pup. Martian mice were born pink and hairless, and their fur only appeared after around a month or so.

Both the grey and white mouse had been watching this procedure with horror. The level of vulnerability that their friend was experiencing had just rocketed sharply upwards. He was now so bare it made them feel nauseous just looking at him.

_Oh moma... that's just wrong._

Modo knew it would be his turn next. They dragged the hairless mouse back to the foot of the throne, and he caught the look of sheer humiliation in his bro's eyes as he was dropped back on his knees once more.

The urge to protect his helpless friend was pumping through him. Seeing what they had just done somehow overrode his sense of self-preservation, and he suddenly threw himself on top of his bare-bodied companion, trying to cover him and warm him with his own thick pelt.

"No, no, no... I don't think so." There was a flash of yellow, and the glowing, electrified whip the Pit Boss carried with him was brought down hard onto the broad grey back, cutting a deep trench into the skin whilst the surging current forced his muscles into a sharp spasm. Modo howled with pain and rage, blood seeping freely from the cut, but still he refused to budge.

He received several more lashes before the guards eventually stepped in to drag him off his cowering friend. After a lengthy struggle, punctuated by deep growls and several swear words (from the guards; Modo was a strong mouse after all) they finally had him restrained.

"Err boss, he's got a gun in his arm!"

Last time he had been interred underground they had simply put a chain around his arm cannon. In the struggle the somewhat feeble ropes that this time were holding the laser weapon inside its casing had come loose, and then finally frayed and broke as he fought to extrude the inner workings of his bionic attachment.

"Hold him down boys, I got something special planned to deal with that little problem."

The head goon was already on his radio and summoning someone called Wes to come to the throne room immediately. "Bring your tools, you know what the boss wants."

A few minutes later a somewhat lean-looking figure came striding into the castle, wearing a large apron and long, thick gloves, and carrying what looked like some kind of gun, and a long mask with a dark tinted visor.

It was as if everyone in this place knew exactly what was going on without having to be told. He marched straight up to the grey mouse, now pinned to the ground by five of the strongest, heaviest men in the room, and knelt down by his right hand side.

The chains on his wrists were detached, and the metal arm was then pulled out straight. As two of the thugs held it still, the man called Wes pulled down his mask, and lit the blow torch he was holding.

Modo screamed. Even though the arm was mechanical it was still capable of sensing external stimuli, and that included pressure, heat and even pain to some degree. There was no way he could ignore what was happening to it now.

It took the man nearly ten minutes to weld shut the hinged doors to the laser cannon, and when he had finished the cooling solder held the seal firmly in place.

"Excellent work Wes, now we don't have to worry about that thing anymore either."

The skinny man nodded and stepped away. His job was done for now; but he had further tasks to complete in his metal shop, and quickly left to get back to his work.

It took twelve men nearly an hour to shave the grey velvet coat from Modo's large, muscular body, and by the time they had finished they were exhausted. The mouse had struggled hard the entire time, and yelled shrilly as the blades were drawn over his whip-lashed back, kicking out to try and get away from the degrading, painful treatment. But there were too many of them, and as one pulled back to rest another took his place, and soon they had worn the thrashing form down enough to complete the shearing in its totality.

The look of distress on Modo's face as he was dragged back to the throne made the white mouse squirm with anxiety.  _It's my turn now... holy crap. Oh bros... you should have got away, you should have fought them when you had the chance to escape._

Vinnie shifted uncomfortably on the cold metal floor of his cage. He hadn't been shorn as his bros had, for there was no mark hidden under his fur to convey who he was enslaved by. The Pit Boss had decided to take the process of making the third Martian his property one step at a time, for now just enjoying watching his reactions as his friends were stripped of their own freedom and dignity. The repellent ruler of this dark place had ordered them to be taken away, and they had been thrown into the three separate cages in the prison yard where just about everyone could see them.

_Oh man... there's so many of them... so many faces._

Hundreds of slaves peered down from their own cells to see the newcomers to their hellhole, and there was nowhere the mice could go to hide from their curious gaze.

Now the lights were dimmed Vinnie did not feel quite so much on display, although he knew that would not last long. He dreaded to think what the morning held in store for them, what further humiliations they would have to endure. For now he looked upon the two huddled forms of his two closest friends, their bodies shivering from both cold and fear, their naked skin showing the ugly scars that littered it, and the fresh wounds that had already been added.

He desperately wanted to speak to them, to offer some soothing words that might console them in their suffering. But there was nothing he could say that would heal these wounds, nor erase the terrible dejection seeping from their souls. All he could do was watch them as they cried themselves to sleep, before he too let the tears flow down his miserable, soft-furred face.


	4. Regrets

It was early when they came for her. She hadn't slept very deeply anyway, partly due to the strange surroundings (and their pungent aroma), and partly because of the soft rasping snores issuing from the adjacent cell. Never before had the woman wished she had a pillow to smother the fat fish with so badly. Her head was still sore and the deep rumblings from his flabby nasal passages did not help her situation one bit.

As she lay there in a half sleep, her sensitive ears had also picked up the sound of heavy footfalls in the prison corridor. They were moving with purpose, and were heading in her direction.

_Oh heck... this does not look good._

She couldn't help remembering what the mice had told her about their short stay here. The Plutarkians had been very eager to deal with them as soon as possible, and had arranged that they be executed by firing squad mere days after their arrival.

_Is this it then, are they coming for me now, are they going to shoot me too?_

Of course she had no idea really how long she had been in that drab-walled cell, for all she knew it could have been several days already. Certainly she felt as though she had been drugged, unless the dizzy tiredness she had experienced upon waking was just the after-effects of being nearly crushed to death.

_It was only a few days for them... my time may be up already. Oh guys where are you?_

When the barred door finally opened, Charley instinctively backed herself against the wall, gripping the meagre blanket on her bed in an anxious fear, afraid of what they were going to do and if this would be the last day of her life.  _But I never even got to... oh god I never got to say goodbye._ A number of other regrets crossed her mind, though strangely she also could not stop a few other random thoughts mingling in with them.

_I never finished that truck for Mr. Grayjoy... nor that old Harley I was restoring for Andy. Did I remember to turn off the computer before I left? Or the iron? Urgh, all that laundry - they won't bother - they'll expect my ghost to come back and do that for them._

The green-scaled guards were quite puzzled when they hauled the giggling woman to her feet and out into the long, narrow hallway. They could only guess she was still high on the cocktail of sedatives and other drugs she had been given before being locked inside there.

It seemed to go on forever, that dingy corridor through the prison. They walked her on and on, round and round, and finally down and down, deep down into the lowest level of the island jail. Eventually the guards brought her in front of a large, steel doorway, and they pressed a button on an intercom-like panel at its side.

"Guard number 010396, prisoner in transit as requested."

For a moment there was only static on the line, but then there was a loud buzz and the metal door slid open to allow them passage.

There were several more doors along the way, some with key codes, others with keys, a confusing array of security measures to stop any unauthorised entry to this basement warren. Or any escape from it.

The final door opened to reveal an alarmingly familiar type of room behind. A giant laboratory. Rows upon rows of examination tables. All manner of complicated looking equipment. Charley's heart found its way into her increasingly dry mouth.  _This must be where they took me first._  She realised with a sick feeling that perhaps her initial disorientation, and maybe even the voices she heard in the darkness, had very likely something to do with this place.  _Then what was that thing in my mouth, or don't I want to know?_

She was led over to the row of tables, and forced horizontally down onto one. The straps that were applied to hold her there were made of some kind of fabric she had never encountered before, but had similarities to both leather and plastic with metallic fibres woven through for added strength. There would be no cutting through these, she thought.  Plutarkian-made materials were notoriously strong.

They left her alone, and the woman began wondering who exactly would be coming in to work on her. She wasn't sure whether the pointed, hag-faced features of Karbunkle would be a relief or not. Just how she felt about Limburger really. A familiar face: a bad or a good thing? She couldn't decide.

But it wasn't the skinny little scientist that came striding through the sliding door at the back of the lab. Whoever it was - make that  _whatever_  it was - they really looked as though they meant business.

The features of its face were so unfamiliar to her she had no idea of its gender, and it did not speak so there were no audio cues either. It was smooth-skinned, pale – not unlike a Caucasian human in skin tone - and its eyes were forward facing and expressive, ringed with golden irises that caught the light in the room and gave off a starburst effect as they shone.

It had a kind of snout, like the Martian mice, though the nostrils weren't at its tip but halfway up and covered by a flap that opened and closed with its breathing movements. If it had ears she could not see them, but it had no hair or fur, or scales, to hide such a thing on its skull. The rest of its body was clothed much like the natives of the planet: loose-fitting, ankle length garments, where it was not apparent if there was a divide between the top and bottom halves.

Standing at around six foot, the strange creature was easily intimidating to a human female immobile on a hard-metal table.

_What the heck is that thing... and, oh god, what it is going to do?_

"Please... please just let me go, I...i'll..."  _I'll do whatever the slimy salmon paying your wage wants, just don't do whatever it is you are going to do._

Whether or not it heard her pleas the thing carried on as if it hadn't. It was rolling over one of the instruments to her table, pressing buttons on the machine and pulling at various levers as it whirred into life. Charley had the vague image in her mind of some of the alien abduction movies she had watched on TV (the mice had roared with laughter at some of the films they had been shown, but went deadly quiet at the rest. Apparently human imagination wasn't always so far off the mark it seemed).

"No, no, no, no... please no!" The mechanic kept up her verbal appeals for mercy, but was still ignored.

The alien had hold of a long arm-like attachment to the machine, and was aiming it straight at Charley's heart. For a moment she thought it was going to either stab her, or send a jolt of electricity much like Earth cardiac defibrillators do, but it was left hovering ominously above her chest. Another arm was drawn over her, this time over her head. It had a different attachment from the first, and somewhat resembled a visor, or goggles, with the open side facing downwards.

Charley tried to move her head away, but the creature was strong and soon the goggle-like end of the arm was fixed over her eyes, with strong straps reaching down around her to hold it on, and to hold her head fixed in place on the table. The woman felt her face twitch as the creature's pale, four-digit hands brushed her cheeks. It wasn't warm, not in its extremities anyway.

She couldn't see the other mechanical arms as they were adjusted to their correct positions, as the thing over clamped her eyes essentially blindfolded her. The last thing she was aware of before the machine was activated was her jaw being forced open, and something pushed into her mouth. It was a familiar feeling. Charley choked, her body remembering the sensation, associating it with being crushed to death rather than whatever was awaiting her here.

And what that was she still didn't know, as before everything went black the only thing she felt was a sharp stabbing on her breastbone, and a pinch-like pressure on her wrists and temple.

* * *

It took him a while to realise he was alone. Not including the silent guard in the corridor. He may as well have been made of stone for all the use he was for company. He didn't like to admit it, not even to himself, but having that woman in the cell next door actually brought him some comfort. Maybe not the kind he would get from being in his penthouse suite, more just that someone else was here and, when it came to it, someone at least would know of his demise.

He hated the thought that no one would remember him. He knew he was unimportant, especially in the eyes of his own kind. His parents rejected him, his sister treated him with contempt, his employers... well, right now they despised him. And not in a good way. He would cope with being hated by all those other species he had wronged; he could understand being loathed for stealing their planet's resources, and for being complicit in their enslavement to his confederates. What he didn't like was that no matter how hard he tried, nothing he did ever pleased the ones he wanted, needed even, to impress.

Who would miss him when he was gone? He had no real friends, only those he paid for their flattery and for their mercenary talents. Mind you, he thought, Greasepit seemed to genuinely admire him – in some bizarre way.

_Must be even more stupid than I give him credit for; that oozing, oily oaf._

And what of Karbunkle, his other deviant normally clinging to his shadow? Had they not worked together long enough now? Did that demented doctor have any loyalties to him, or was he still just as fickle in his following as he was back on Mars?

_Surely he thinks something of me?  He was trying his best to pull me out that cavern, and besides without me and my expensive tastes, how else would he get his hands on purple silk pyjamas and velvet tuxedos?_

Limburger sighed. He had no idea what they had in mind for him. He was to be punished for allowing the mice to sabotage the Tug Transformer, but how exactly he did not know. Either he would be locked away for the rest of his life, or executed, or worse. Lord Camembert was extremely inventive when it came to humiliating his least-liked subordinates such as him.

_I don't think I can cope with cleaning that bathroom again; my tongue can still taste the toe-nail clippings, and the dead scales steeped in ammonia._

The fish looked almost forlornly at the empty cot beyond the bars. At least the Earth woman was feisty, and strong-willed. She would be very entertaining to watch during her stay here. He had no idea what they were doing to her, but he sincerely hoped that whatever it was didn't change the sharp wit her tongue possessed, nor the determined energy she gave off when she glared at him. He was half-counting on her for his own survival, or in the very least to stop himself going mad with boredom. The longer she lived, the longer he did - or so he hoped.

* * *

When she finally came round her head was aching again, and her eyes were heavy, reluctant to open to the orange light filtering through the window's bars. She moaned softly as she tried to lift herself, but every part of her refused the messages her brain was sending. She was confused, disorientated... she couldn't remember how she got here, or even if she ever left. She wanted to be sick again, but there was no way she was getting to the toilet this time. She swallowed her stomach contents back down, the acid burning her gullet, her eyes watering at the stinging in her throat.

She could hear someone talking to her. She recognised the voice. But not the manner in which it spoke to her. It was soothing, maybe a little cajoling. It was telling her to lie still, to let the drugs wear off, that she was ok. It was telling her she had been gone for a few hours, and that breakfast hadn't yet been served. She couldn't help but wonder what that might be. What did fish think a suitable meal to feed a human? Would she have to eat worms? Maggots? Garbage?

_Oh no, don't think things like that..._

Her guts heaved. The thought of consuming anything the fish-like aliens found edible was enough to make her bring back up the last three days worth of stomach contents – if she hadn't already done so. Now all was left was that corrosive cocktail of digestive fluids, and she didn't fancy eating herself from the inside out either.

The voice was still talking. Banal nonsense. Something about luxury hotels and penthouse suites. Something about purple suits. Limousines. Holidays to Florida. A lifetime of missed opportunities, compensated for somehow by living a life of luxury. The voice was soft, sad almost. Did she detect a note of regret? Of jealousy?

_Is he comparing my life to his, and wishing he had what I do... or did?_

It was an extraordinary revelation if it were true, but somehow she didn't believe it. That fat flounder next door had lied his way out of so many tight spots that he was practically an expert in deception, and if she didn't know him any better she might actually have believed it.

"That's one hell of a sob story Limburger, but don't think it makes a difference. You wouldn't think twice about flattening my garage and you know it."

That shut him up, she thought.  _Good job too, this headache's a real bitch and it ain't getting any better._

She lay there with her eyes closed, blocking out the image of her foe and of her garage. Her poor garage, blown to bits by that hideous high chairman of this stinking planet. She had had to rent a temporary shop with a flat above it just while she tried to fight with her insurance company for compensation. They were refusing to pay out, saying they didn't cover giant laser-beams from the sky in their policy. The three mice, who were forced to live with her since the scoreboard had also been wiped out by that same weapon (the infamous Planetary Pulverizer), had been driving her nuts with their repeated requests to go and 'persuade' the insurers to change their minds.

It didn't matter now. If the mice didn't know where she was they would probably give up and go back to Mars, or else die trying to find her. She doubted very much she was ever making it back to Earth. Even if the Plutarkians didn't plan on executing her, they definitely wanted her for something.

She wanted to cry. That garage had been her life, and then so had the mice. But her garage was gone, and the mice were billions of miles away and she far from their reach. Now all she had was a filthy blanket to hold onto for comfort, and the simpering, silky drawl from next door; the woe-filled words of the very man who had ruined her life.


	5. Flesh and iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get darker for our furry heroes...

It was the end of their first full day in the underground settlement. One whole day... it had felt like a lifetime already. In fact, to him it seemed as though he had never left. Two years of freedom wiped away from his life in mere minutes.

And it was all his fault.

_Some leader I am.  I just stood there and let them take me, take us. Take him._

The furless mouse glanced in the direction of his youngest friend and felt ashamed. It was one thing allowing himself to be taken prisoner, but to allow one of his comrades to be taken too, that was unforgiveable. Especially since he had sworn an oath to protect him, to guide him the best he could through life whilst trying his very best to keep him relatively safe. Of course this was almost impossible, what with being a freedom fighter on a war-torn planet, and then crash landing on Earth to continue the battle against the alien menace from Plutark. And it definitely didn't help that Vinnie was by nature a thrill-seeking daredevil, the kind of person to throw himself in front of danger with no thought for his own safety.

Throttle sighed at the sight of the mouse in the tiny cage beside his. If it hadn't been for his own actions, or lack of, this could have been prevented. This poor young Martian, whom had already seen more than his fair share of misfortune in his short life, first losing half of his face in battle, then most of his memories, and now all of his freedom. And probably the rest of his life too.

_It's not fair.  I should have been the one standing between the Pit Boss and him, not the other way round. Why didn't I move, why_ _**couldn't** _ _I?_

He knew the answer. Nothing in his whole life had struck so much fear into him as that balding, bad tempered brute. If he had not been so thirsty after spending several hours trapped in the tunnel system searching for the Tug Transformer, he probably would have wet himself the moment he saw who was waiting for them in the fallen passage.

_I knew there was something strange about that tunnel. Limburger was in the old cave system, but that rock further on looked freshly mined._

It had taken him a while to make that leap. Seeing the activity of the slaves all but confirmed it. The place may have already existed, but had almost certainly since been widened to accommodate the ever-growing population down here.

He knew from experience that the work that went into turning this cave into a vast cavern must have been unbelievably tough. Goodness know how many lives had been lost. If not from mining accidents themselves then certainly from either exhaustion, starvation, or exposure. Last time he had been lucky to not have experienced that the latter too badly. Not this time however.

_I feel so sorry for the humans, how do they survive with no fur? At least they have their clothes though._

The memory of being stripped down to nothing made his stomach stir uncomfortably. It had been worse this time, he thought, because he could have at least struggled against the goons as the tore his things from him. Last time he had been chained to the floor, weak from lack of food and overwork, and no match for the men pinning him down.

_Modo didn't try either, and he is so strong. But he tried to help me.  And look where that got him._

The grey-toned skin of his older friend was still weeping with blood. Throttle stared at him for a while, wondering if the gentle hearted mouse would ever be able to forgive him for his lack of valour. Probably, he thought, and he may even be wondering the same of me, and of Vinnie.

He turned back to the white-furred mouse. He was stood there in bewilderment, unsure of how to place himself in his new situation. It had taken Throttle and Modo a while to get used to it too, the first time, though not so much this time. Even a two year gap could not erase the skill that had been forced into their repertoire. Walking on four legs was ingrained in them now, and soon it would be in him too.

Throttle grimaced as another memory played across his mind. Their first day... he wondered how long until he wished it had been his last.

They had come for them quite late that morning, probably because they had to first get the other slaves fed and out to work. By the time the guards had approached their cages they were well awake, and cringed against the bars almost as if they would rather stay caged than face whatever was coming next.

Modo was pulled out first. The men had grabbed hold of his tail and yanked hard, and the mouse had been unable to resist it. He knew it would be foolish to even try at this point. Once out they had dragged him to his feet and led him away from the prison yard and out of view. Five or ten minutes later they had returned, and opened the second cage door.

They reached in and did the same with Throttle, pulling him out by his prehensile tail. To him it felt strange; the sensation of the cold, human palms on his bare skin was unfamiliar, and quite unpleasant. They hadn't missed a single hair on his body, his tail was as bald as his torso, as were his ears and face (shaving off his sensitive whiskers had been pretty awful), and even between his fingers and toes, and his legs.

He had been walked over to where they had left they grey mouse, who was tethered to an iron loop on a modest-sized, stone-walled building with a corrugated metal roof. From what he could hear inside, this sounded very likely to be the place where the slender-framed welder named Wes resided.

They were left alone whilst the guards went for Vinnie. It was their first real opportunity to talk.

"You OK bro?" Throttle whispered as loud as he dared into the furless earlobe of his friend. "I'm... i'm so sorry... I couldn't..."

"I know, me neither. Not until I saw what they did to you." The gentle giant mouse pressed himself closer to his younger friend, trying to use the moment to share more than just apologies. He was shivering even now it was 'daytime' and supposedly warmer.

"Do you think it'll be like last time... a-all of it?"

The grey mouse nodded. He had no doubt at all what was in store for them. "Speaking of which bro, you never know how long 'til..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence, and Throttle gave him some space whilst he emptied his bladder. He was amazed his friend even contained so much fluid, they hadn't been given anything to drink at all since they arrived.

"You not gunna?" Modo asked when he was done.

Throttle answered that he wasn't sure he could, but he too was soon adding to the puddle beside them. Both mice prayed this wasn't going to land them in trouble. Almost anything could be considered an offence down here.

It wasn't long before they saw the white fur of their youngest companion, stark against the grey stone of the prison behind him. They registered the look of agitated surprise on his face as he was led towards them.

_Probably has no idea what's coming. But we do, and he ain't going to like it one bit._

The three mice were left chained by their wrists outside the metal shop, the guards not bothering to stay to keep an eye on them. Throttle and Modo glanced at the wet patch on the ground, and then at their friend, hoping he would make the connection himself.

He looked confused, so there was nothing for it but to tell him.

"What here? Now? In front of..." Vinnie looked half embarrassed, half disgusted.

"In front of us, yeah bro.  You better do it quick you might not get another chance." Modo motioned again to the puddle, pointing at it with his tail.

"Can't you just... look away a minute?"

"Jeez bro, the sooner you get used to this the better."

"Yeah Vinnie, pissing in front of us is nothing compared to taking a dump in front of the entire pit full of slaves, not to mention the guards who will beat you the moment you stop to crouch." For Modo, this was probably the worst part of the whole ordeal. Not being beaten, no that was something he had experienced many times before, but the indignity of being punished for answering the call of nature when there really was no other option. That was what made him really mad. Amongst everything else that is.

The two naked mice almost envied their friend, his reddened cheeks just about showed through the thick hairs on his face. Every blush they made by contrast would be a glowing beacon for any and all to see.

Vinnie relieved himself just before the workshop door opened. Wes shot a look at the white mouse as he hastily tried to hide what he had just done, but he didn't say anything. He had far more important things on his mind than three alien prisoners using his building as an impromptu toilet.

Up close the mice could see this man was not like the rest of the thugs, thieves and so on living down here. For a starters he was thin, and not in a healthy way. His cheek bones were prominent through the taut, pale skin on his face, indicating a long time away from natural light, and a long time without a decent meal.

Despite this Wes proved to be a powerful man, and he left the fuller-figured prisoners at his door in no doubt that that he was in control. They looked up at him as if he were the taller of them, though he was in fact only around Vinnie's height. Somehow the lines on his face, and the grey streaks through his dark, short hair, gave him an aura of someone not to be messed with. This made the mice wonder why he was not more assertive amongst the goons in the throne room.

The skinny framed man took Modo's chained wrists in his hands, and released the lock attaching him to the iron loop. He then led the mouse inside the workshop, closing the door behind him.

"What you think he's gunna do, bro?"

"Who Modo or that Wes fella?" Throttle was wondering if the large mouse would take the opportunity to try and escape. One half-starved man against one giant, well-muscled mouse. Surely the odds were in the Martian's favour?

"Uh... I meant the man, Wes." Having seen what he could do with a blow torch and a slip of metal, Vinnie was not as confident as his tan friend that their bro was on the winning team.

Even with his voice so low the sardonic tone was unmistakeable. "Do you really want me to answer that Vin, really? We're chained up outside a metal shop, what do you think he is going to do?" 

The white mouse barely had time to screw his face up at the question when the door opened again. This time Wes had Throttle in his grasp, and the tan mouse found himself quickly changing his mind again.

_He may look weak, but I couldn't be more wrong about him._

Clearly years of working at a forge had given the man strength despite his lack of obvious muscle tone.

Inside the workshop the mouse quickly spotted his older bro, who was now kneeling by the far wall, chained to it by his neck. This was where Throttle himself was being directed, and his mouth opened slightly, allowing a small gasp to escape as he was forced to the floor. There was no fighting this man.

Soon the large iron ring was locked under his chin, and the thick chain to which it was connected felt heavy on his shoulders. He peered at his bro, and could see the look in his eyes, the one that said this was going to be just like last time, maybe even worse.

Wes was watching the two of them exchange their expressions of fear and resignation. He had seen it plenty of times before, in the other slaves. He had even seen it in the same two faces before him now. They weren't exactly the kind of people you wouldn't recognise should you meet them years later, although he doubted the feeling was mutual.

_They probably will eventually though, maybe even today, after I finish with the other._

He left the two mice to fetch the third, whom he also chained to the wall. Vinnie looked up at the man as he connected the neck collar, his face flush with hatred and anxiety. Wes smiled. He liked them when they still had enough strength left to show such defiance. This mouse clearly hadn't experienced anything like this before, and unlike the other two he was probably going to show his true character sometime in the near future.

_How long until they take that away from him too I wonder? Probably sooner than the big one, I've never seen a slave last more than a few weeks, let alone nearly six months._

Shaking his head, Wes moved away to examine his tools. He had everything ready, he just needed to take some measurements and he could begin.

The tape measure was first wrapped around each of their wrists, and then their ankles, before been drawn out between their shoulders and hips. Each distance was recorded on a small, scruffy notebook, and then the man turned back again to his tools.

The three mice watched in fascination as he worked. The way the heated iron bent to his will as if it were paper was incredible, and showed the skill in the hands that shaped the metal of someone who had been doing this most of his life.

Each newly-formed object was dunked in a barrel of water, sending a splutter of hissing steam as the hot met cold, boiling the water upon contact. After a while, the man had assembled his creations and then stood back to admire his handiwork. Even with the grim purpose of his task, he still couldn't help the pride he felt when he had finished. He truly was an artist, a sculptor of iron.

Throttle and Modo knew exactly what Wes had just made, and bit their lips in apprehension as he picked up his first set of metal wonders. Vinnie was much more curious, and didn't flinch when the man came back towards them carrying the new, double-ended shackles.

The tan mouse squealed and buried his face into the fleshy shoulder at his side. Modo instinctively moved in closer to shield him, but there wasn't much else he could do. This man was an unknown entity, the extent of his capabilities masked by his belying stature.

Vinnie couldn't see what was happening now the oldest of his bros was in the way, but the tiny noise of terror issuing from the other mouse's mouth made that curiosity change into anxiety.  _What the heck is he doing to him?_

He soon found out. Modo was being forcibly removed from his comrade's side by the waif-like welder, the chain around his neck taut as he was pulled from the reach of his friend and re-attached to another ring on the wall. Vinnie then got a full view of his other bro as Wes fitted the manacles around his ankles and then to his wrists.

"No... bro..." The words were out before he could stop them, and the white mouse paled as the man flicked his attention at him.

All three mice were waiting, holding their breaths for the reprimand.

But it never came. The man snorted, and stood up from the four-legged mouse to retrieve his next set of double-irons. Knowing that the grey mouse was more likely to cause him trouble, Wes decided to deal with him next. He was still chained at the wrists by the first set of cuffs he had been placed in, as were all of them, but he thought it prudent to leave those on until the last possible moment.

He took a deep breath as he faced the large grey mouse. There was nothing else for it. He aimed a hard kick at Modo's stomach, forcing him to double over, gasping from the blow. A few minutes later Wes had achieved his task, and the second of the three rodents was ready to spend the rest of his life as a quadruped.

By now Vinnie had seen enough. When Wes approached with the final set of shackles, the white mouse screeched and lashed out with his tail, and tried desperately to free himself from the chain around his neck, frantic in his struggle to not join his two friends in this newest humiliation.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He yelled over and over, kicking at the man, not caring about anything other than getting away from him.

"Having some trouble with this one are we?"

The voice issuing from the doorway took them all surprise. Throttle and Modo cowered, instinctively keeping their heads down low. They didn't dare look him in the eyes. On the other hand Vinnie stared up at him open mouthed, frozen mid-kick.

"He's just going to take some work boss, I can manage him." Wes didn't exactly look the menacing form framing the entrance to the workshop in the eyes either.

"Indeed, i'm sure you can." There was a trace of sarcasm in that remark, and something else. The mice were too distracted to think much of it right now though. Vinnie had given up his fight, too afraid of what his actions might lead to for his friends. Wes took advantage of this and soon had the mouse chained as his employer desired.

"Are you ready for the next? I want to be here to see it, and as I am here now..."

"Yes sir, it's been prepared as you ordered."

Two of the mice had a feint inkling of what this next thing might be, but the other was under the impression there was a fourth captive waiting to be fitted with a shiny new set of bangles. He looked about him, his pink eyes searching the corners of the workshop for the signs of another slave. Instead his gaze met with something else.

_Holy... oh crap, oh crap... no, no, no._

Wes was now stoking the glowing coals inside the small furnace, his hands gloved in the same manner as the previous day. After a few moments he turned back to the mice, and in his grip he held the long, iron stick, with its end moulded into the initials of the foreboding figure just entering the little building.

Now Vinnie was glad he had emptied his bladder earlier. The Pit Boss had decided he wanted a close-up of the action, and had the shaking mouse on his side, holding him firmly down for the smaller man to do his duty.

Both Throttle and Modo looked away, wishing they could cover their ears and block the sound of their young friend's pitiful cries as the hot iron rod pressed into him. Instead the whimpering screams penetrated through, along with the acrid smell of burning flesh and fur, and the gleeful cackling of the man who was now the owner of them all. They hated him just as much as they feared him.

_Poor Vinnie, if only I had done something sooner, now he is doomed just as we are._

The hairless mouse couldn't help the few tears his dehydrated body would allow. He watched his young friend now, who was shifting in his cage clearly in discomfort. It would take a while for the pain in his thigh to dissipate, but at least it would eventually. However he would never been free of the perpetual ache his new posture would cause him. If anything, it would probably only get worse.

After the branding they had then also been fitted with the leather harnesses that they would have to wear in the mining pit. Apparently the Pit Boss had had the three sets made before they had even arrived, also the handiwork of the metal-working man. They were all the same size, but had numerous buckles on the straps to adjust them for each mouse's body. Modo had grunted in agony as the leather was tightened around him and his freshly wounded skin.

After that they had been led to the slave mine and set to work. The older mice knew what they had to do, which also included mentoring their bro on how it all worked.

Each mouse had a cart to pull, and each strained against the straps to drag their loads from the mine to the unfinished section of castle. Vinnie had barely adjusted to being on all-fours, and stumbled on his chains the entire way. He now realised just how callous the guards overseeing their work really were. Every time he fell he would find himself at the other end of someone's whip, and the cutting tongue of whomever's mercy he was at.

By the end of the day Vinnie was exhausted. His white fur had turned a deep red with all the blood, his skin ragged from being thrashed time and time again. His shoulders ached, as did his legs, and his knuckles were bruised and stiff from supporting his substantial upper-body weight. And the angry, red mark on his thigh was swollen and blistered, still hot and tender from where the metal had met his body.

Throttle took in his friend's appearance and felt another terrible twinge of shame in his heart. His youngest bro, whom he should have been looking out for, was locked inside this place of misery; suffering and afraid. The guards had tethered him by his neck so he couldn't even lie down and rest from the gruelling work he had endured, and would have to face again tomorrow. This was cruelty beyond all imagination. They intended to wear him down, to break the spirit that made him who he was. They had already taken his freedom, but now they were after his soul.

After everything that had happened to the smaller, white-furred mouse, Throttle wasn't sure it would be very long before that terrible day came. There was only so much a person could endure in their life, but now Vinnie was no longer a person. He was a prisoner, a slave... an animal in a cage. This was all he was now, and it wasn't enough to save him from the worst that was still yet to come.


	6. Twenty-nine haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter from Charley's pov.

Staring blankly up at the flaking paint on the ceiling of her cell was pretty much the only thing to do in here now. In-between indulging her neighbour in pointless conversation, and being dragged away for the mysterious sessions down in the laboratory that is. She had lost count of the days now, for all she knew it could have been weeks, or longer; but even with so many mornings being woken and taken to face the pale-skinned alien and his many-armed machine, she still was none the wiser as to its purpose.

Each time she was lain down on that table, with the various attachments placed across her body, and as the equipment was turned on she would feel the same sensations of pressure before passing out. And each time she would then wake in her cell to the slick sympathies issuing from next door.

The headache she had almost never went away. Sometimes it would dull for a while, but every time the fat fish even opened his mouth the throbbing would start again.

_I wish he would just shut up, it's not like he has anything interesting to say._

This wasn't entirely true, and she knew it, but the near constant pain in her temple made her tetchy. When she wasn't feeling so lousy sometimes Limburger's words held some merit. Although he never said anything about what was happening to her, other than how long she was away. The times she was away the longest he seemed more relieved to see her, which unnerved her somewhat.

Charley never did trust the purple-suited Plutarkian. Even his vaguely caring words were probably just another form of calculated deceit.

She turned to face him now, he apparently having given up on drawing her into his irksome conversation. He was lying down on his own meagre mattress, which considering the size of him it was miraculously still able to hold his weight.

That was another thing that unnerved her. As big as he was he had definitely lost some girth since being locked in here. His masked face was less rounded, the plastic now ill-fitting on his fish-like flesh beneath, and his velvet suit hung almost absurdly loose on him. Bearing in mind the paltry food portions they were getting, it was no surprise he was slimming down – this was practically the worst, most severely enforced diet he had ever been put on.

_But at least for him the food is edible._

The Plutarkian guards must have presented her with almost every kind of disgusting, slimy invertebrate-like species on the planet, expecting her to enjoy the grotesque meal as much as Limburger apparently did. She only ate the things because she was half-starving, and would try everything at least once if it meant the difference between a night with a growling stomach, and one without. Mostly, though, the food itself was responsible for much of the noises issuing from her complaining belly.

_I'd kill for an omelette right now... or hot dogs. Never thought I would be wanting hot dogs, I should be sick of them with the amount those mice eat._

That thought made her squirm uncomfortably. Every time she remembered her furry friends she felt sick. She had no idea what, if anything, had happened to them in those tunnels, but even so she wasn't expecting them to find her right away... if ever.

_Guys... wherever you are... please be ok._

The selflessness in her nature made her really care only for their own safety, and less about her immediate future. Aside from being locked up next door to the bad-smelling businessman, being fed slime worms for dinner and taken away for mysterious experiments, it wasn't that bad where she was now. It could be worse, she thought, I could be dead and buried under several tonnes of fallen rock, and my planet could be orbiting this junkyard with no hope of return.

She didn't want to acknowledge the other possibility. That Earth may have been pulled here against its will after all, and there was no way for her to know unless someone told her.

Whatever was going on back home there was nothing she could do about it. She knew she had to try and focus, and come up with a plan to get out of here in one piece regardless of whether or not she might be rescued. But this was so very difficult; that headache blurred her thoughts and dulled her wits, and she was no more capable of concocting an escape strategy than she was writing a simple shopping list.

This feeling of haze grew steadily worse over time too. After several more days (or was it weeks?) of being taken downstairs, she really did feel she had lost all sense of reality. Sometimes she would wake and not see the purple-eyed Plutarkian next door, but rather other people – her parents, her friends, old foes... She knew she was hallucinating when she saw anyone like that. She was less sure of her state of mind when she nobody at all. After all, they must have something planned for Limburger other than him rotting away in here for the rest of his life.

In fact, the third time she realised she was alone in the cell block, she had made every effort to stay awake to see if he returned in person, rather than as a result of the drugs she had been given wearing off.

She was right, this time, he  _had_  been taken elsewhere.

"Hey... fish-face... what gives?" Charley couldn't help talking to him in a way that showed her dislike of him whilst at the same time pretending to 'get along'.

He ignored her at first, lying down on his cot and groaning. It was clear that something had gone on, that something had been done to him in some way.

Charley pressed on with her questioning. "Where they take you this time? Camembert need his shoes shining?"

The woman hoped her jibe at the humiliating punishments the fish's boss liked to dole out to his subordinates would rouse some sort of retort from him. Instead he merely huffed, rolling over to face away from her piercing yet inquisitive stare.

_So he doesn't want to talk... what a shame... Peace and quiet for a change._

Not that she really wanted it to be quiet today. She had too much on her mind, too many questions, too many worries, and despite the sedatives in her system her thoughts were remarkably clear for once.

After a while Limburger came back to himself, and sat up to face his neighbouring cell. What had happened to him was none of her business, he decided, but he was curious that she in herself was more alert today... and more eager for his company.

"It's been nearly a month... when do you think those half-wit hamster friends of yours are going to get their act together and get us out of here?"

_Nearly a month? Oh man. It feels like so much longer..._

Charley wondered how the fish-man even knew this detail, and asked him so. He pointed to a series of scratches made in the wall by his bed. Apparently the modified scales tipping his fin-like hands were strong enough to make a dent in the concrete-like blocks the place was built from. He had made a mark for each morning he awoke in his cell. Twenty-nine marks.

"You sure you haven't missed any?" The woman wondered if there were some days he might not have woken in his cell, and she not realised because she was elsewhere.

He nodded. He was sure.

"Jeez..." What more could she say? A month wasn't that long in the grand scheme of things, but she still couldn't help but wonder if her guys were even still looking for her.

_Of course they will be, they wouldn't give up on me any more than I would on them._

More days passed, and Limburger did his best to make her aware of how many. In exchange she relaxed her defensive attitude towards him. Some company was better than none right now, even if he did smell like rotten eggs.

His voice was the only thing giving her any sense of reality anymore... a central point of reference. The haze got worse, the headache more persistent. Her eyes were sore and weeping, and her skin tingled like a bad case of pins and needles. She still had no idea what was being done to her, or why. She kept asking Limburger but he just shrugged. She sensed he really didn't know what the purpose of her lab sessions were.

The confusion grew and grew, until one day it took the fat fish nearly two hours to bring her back to functioning state.  _What the heck is happening to me?_

This day was different from the previous in many ways. The last thing she remembered was not the strange machine and the pale-faced alien before blacking out. No, this time she remembered something else. A different place. A room full of machines, tools, a workshop... or a control room. She couldn't tell.

There were other faces there too, not pale and smooth-skinned, but green and scaled, and others of species she did not recognise. Strange features amongst others... there were some more familiar ones.  _Was that fur I saw on one?_

It was only a flicker, a brief and vague recollection. Something inside her told her she probably wasn't meant to have this image in her memory, and that she had better keep her mouth shut about it. If it happened again, she needed to be able to try and recall it if possible, and work out the true purpose of her incarceration and the experimentation sessions. Letting on that she had seen something more would no doubt result in the drugs being altered to make her forget. She had to remember. She didn't know why yet, but her instincts told her this was too important to not try to make sense of. It could mean life or death, and from what she had seen this did not necessarily mean for her personally.


	7. Protect and serve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modo's p.o.v. Starting to really get into the adult rating now, be warned.

The days had already begun to merge into one; a vast epic of time where the brutal routine became the norm and the only variation in their lives was punctuated by acts of extreme cruelty against them.

This came as no surprise to him though, for he had seen it before. Lived it before. That two year gap in-between seemed nothing more than a holiday now, despite having often been just as, if not more difficult than his current situation.

The only real difference this time, he thought, was that there was someone else with them, someone else he felt he had to protect, and therefore that same someone was not out there looking to be his only hope of rescue. In fact this time there was no one out there. The only other person who might have come searching for them was almost certainly buried under fallen rock, and probably long dead already. And there was no reason for anyone back home to worry at their absence. They had gone dark plenty of times before, and contact with Mars was minimal at best.

No. This was it now, he felt certain of it. How long it went on for depended purely on how long they could survive. At this point it was seeming like this would be far longer than last time, for even though they were worked to exhaustion most days, and regularly punished for practically nothing other than blinking, it did not appear that the Pit Boss wanted them to perish prematurely.

The working days were somewhat shorter (there was less hurry to complete the castle, the underground tunnels provided a home in themselves after all), and meals usually appeared twice a day instead of just once. The food wasn't much better though, still a cold brown slop vaguely resembling wholemeal porridge – though every once in a while it would taste different. They suspected whoever was in charge of meal preparation got bored of doing the same thing time and time again.

_Or else some days we get leftovers... I swear there were peas and carrots in last night's bowl._

As they had no use of their hands, the cages in which they lived had two wire frames, each supporting a shallow, stainless steel bowl, set at shoulder height so they could reach them. One of these was almost always filled with water (though there were no guarantees it was fresh), and the other was used for food in the morning before work, and the evening before lights out. The portions were still quite small though.

Whilst their bellies were distinctly fuller this time round, both Throttle and Modo appreciated the difference this made to the other routines in their life. Their bodily functions. It was bad enough in the Pits, before even the days when they were chained on all-fours, when the urge to empty their bowels rarely came more than a few times a week. Now, however, with two meals a day this need itself was almost daily.

Vinnie's first time was almost horrific to watch, but he hadn't been able to not stare. They had already whispered to him that the best time was when their carts were unloaded, as they were at least allowed to stand still during that time. He had taken this on board, and saved the crucial moment for just then.

It hadn't been pretty. Vinnie's body wasn't used to all the changes it had been put through, so was struggling to get the motion started, and they had moved him on half way through. The urge to continue became strong enough to make him stop en-route to the mine, and he had then been punished for stopping by having his face rubbed in the mess. He followed this up by emptying his stomach, which earned him being face-planted into that as well.

This could have gone on and on but one of the guards shouted to stop messing around, and the white mouse had had to spend the rest of the day holding back retches from the smell on his facial fur.

_They could 'a hosed him down, half the slaves lost their dinner that day for goodness sake._

This was another tough part of their routine. The weekly shower. A pressure hose filled with pain, a freezing jet, a blade of water so powerful it was like being shaved all over again.

_Goos job our fur had started to re-grow...or we couldn't have lasted the night otherwise._

It was normal to lose a few slaves in the nights after bath day. They were never dried off, just thrown into their cells soaked to the skin and made to suffer through the deadly chill of the night. If the shorn mice had been given this treatment their first night they almost certainly would have died of hypothermia.

Being the largest of the three, Modo at least had the benefit of a smaller surface area to body ratio, allowing him to retain more heat, but even so those first days after he had been shaved had been some of the coldest he had ever experienced. It was a small mercy he had been able to curl up on a ball when left in his cage the first night, because when he was chained on all fours the next he had not been able to do that, and if anything the second night was the worst. For all of them.

Whilst he and Throttle had been suffering from the cold, their smallest bro had been locked in a torment all his own. So many things had happened to him in such a short period of time: being chained like an animal, branded, forced into hard labour, and beaten mercilessly when he couldn't adjust fast enough. The whimpers coming from his cage had pierced through the gentle mouse's heart, and he had stood there wishing he too hadn't allowed them to be captured without putting up a fight.

_But now we're here, and there's nothing else I can do other than try to protect them._

Try. That was all he could do. How was he meant to prevent the savagery being meted out on his two friends when he himself was at the mercy of their captors? They weren't allowed to speak or to have physical contact with each other, so to shout warnings or to intervene bodily was almost pointless, for they would quickly be over powered and punished all the worse for it.

There was one other way he could do his bit, and as much as he loathed it, it had worked to some degree worked last time. He felt sure without his actions Throttle would have been targeted for much worse than he actually received. A chilling thought, considering what had been done to him.

And this was what he was facing now. Right now.

Modo had been taken out of line on the way back to the cages, and he knew instantly what it meant. He only hoped Vinnie would have the sense to not quiz him when he returned, because it was bad enough going through it without re-living it in words. Throttle had never asked him about these sessions, and he had never asked him about his own. He suspected Throttle had guessed the nature of his trips to the Pit Boss's castle when he had first been stripped, and the deep cuts in the back of his legs had finally been revealed.

_I wonder how bad this will be. Doesn't matter though, he can do what he wants to me, I won't give him the satisfaction of breaking down._

It had taken nearly six months for the grey mouse to fall apart last time, and this wasn't from the awful things that had been done to him personally. It was being made to watch his friend, who had been worn down so much he had soiled his cage, and then one of the guard's shoes in his fear, be abused so sickeningly and so roughly in punishment that it almost robbed him of his life. At that point he had wanted to join him. Modo couldn't have gone on another day without Throttle by his side.

He knew what was expected of him anyway, what the foul felon who lorded over him wanted him to do. The Pit Boss saw a huge, muscular mouse, brimming with physical prowess and strength. He wanted Modo to know that down here none of that counted for anything, and that soon he would be weakened; depleted of any power to ever fight back.

This was the purpose of these sessions. Though he knew this it still scared him, and as he was led into that stone room with the chain taut around his neck, he couldn't stop the fluttering behind his ribs nor the swirling in his stomach. It took him all his concentration just to not let the abhorrent beast see him trembling.

Modo was chained to a loop fixed into the floor, and waited. He realised his tail was swishing in agitation, so he made a conscious effort to stop it by winding it around his leg.

This wasn't the throne room where they had been taken initially, this was some kind of external chamber, and it bore a disturbing resemblance to the pavilion back in the Pits. Except it was designed more like a stadium, with rows of benches encircling the room, rising upwards to give the audience a clear view to the gory details of this session. And there was a seat, another throne-like chair, situated at one end of the oval-shaped room. He was chained directly in front of this, and sat before him was the Pit Boss.

It was a few moments before he spoke, the gap given over to him casting his eyes over the prisoner standing at his feet.

"Nice of you to join me,  _rat_. Why don't you give me a twirl so I can get a good look at you?"

Modo flinched at the use of his most-hated insult, but he managed to keep his cool. He walked around the loop to which he was tethered, turning a full circle to bring him back to facing forwards. He was motioned to do it again, and again, yet the third time he was halted whilst looking down the oval-shaped arena.

The grey mouse gulped. He didn't like not being able to see his foe, and felt incredibly vulnerable as it was without having to turn his back to him.

"What an amazing body you have rat..." The Pit Boss had risen and was tracing his hands over the mouse's outline, which was now covered in a short, downy coat. "I'm so glad it belongs to me, there is so much just waiting to be done with it..."

The detestable man was practically purring as he felt him over, and Modo was having a hard time keeping the look of revulsion off his face. He bared his teeth in disgust as the inspection lingered between his hind legs, which seemed to move from a light fondling to sharp tugging, and then worse. He could feel the skin of his sheath being pulled back, no doubt in search of the organ that was retracted deep within his abdomen.

_There's no way he's getting his filthy hands on that. Not ever._

Clearly disappointed, the man moved his hands on, still exploring the back end of the mouse's body. He noticed the tail wound tightly around the left leg, and paused for a moment.

" _You dare hide the symbol of my ownership of you_ _ **slave**_ _?_ " The voice hissed into his ear almost without warning, and Modo had barely processed what it meant when he felt the blow to his side.

It knocked him over, and he lay there winded whilst the Pit Boss yanked his tail from around his thigh, uncovering the brand mark that the mouse hadn't even realised he had hidden.

"That's better. Now get up you worthless piece of dirt before I make it impossible for you to ever do so again."

It wasn't easy to right yourself if your wrists and ankles were connected by such a short chain, and if your stomach was cramping from having just been kicked, but after a few seconds writhing around trying to get into a sitting position, Modo was at last able to heave himself back to his feet.

He had hoped this was the end of the examination, but his luck was running short. His tail was grabbed hold of once again, and to the chorus of giggles issuing from the goons watching this whole interaction, Modo felt it lift upwards over his back, exposing the muscular opening to his rectum.

He groaned quietly as he felt the dirt-encrusted digits push inside. The skin on those fingers were so dry and rough that the unwelcome intrusion was downright unpleasant. They were wiggling around, the two of them, and he felt himself clench involuntarily.

The fingers were suddenly withdrawn, and to his further disgust they soon appeared in front of his snout.

"Open wide, rat, it seems you're not so clean inside after all... and my fingers need a scrub."

_Oh Moma... I hope you never have to hear of this... I hope no one does._

Modo obeyed, but it nearly cost him his breakfast. After that he resolved to keep his jaw firmly shut, but even that was soon to be tested.

"Tell me, rodent, tell me who owns your sorry ass..."

As with his tan-furred cousin, actually speaking aloud what was expected in reply was far worse than being what it alluded to. Being a slave was not so bad, as it was merely another word for prisoner in his mind. But saying it,  _admitting it_ , that was different. It made it difference.

He knew if he remained silent there would be horrific repercussions, but he still didn't really want to say it out loud.

"You do... master." He mumbled, looking down at his hands.

"I didn't hear you slave,  _who owns your sorry, tight ass_?"

Modo repeated himself loud enough for the whole room to hear, clenching his fists tightly to absorb the rage he was sure would otherwise leak out in his tone of voice.

"And who has the right to do whatever they want to you, whenever they want?"

"You do..." he choked. He really hated this word. " _Master_."

"Good. And don't you ever forget it. Now come forward."

The grey mouse edged slowly closer to the man who was now reclining back on his stone-bodied chair, his eyes focused on the floor and at the thick-soled boots which he was approaching. He wasn't too sure what to expect, a moment ago he had felt certain what was coming, but now...

_Oh no... oh no not that..._

He had allowed his eyes to flicker upwards briefly, mainly so that he didn't walk head-first into the chair or bump into the stubby knees of his captor. He caught sight of the electric-charged whip, which almost never left the Pit Boss's side, but it wasn't that that worried him now.

The grimy hands were working at something just under the bloated gut protruding over the man's lap. Buttons. Zip. Two flaps. Elastic and cotton.

He felt the same two hands grasping his ears and pulling his head, dragging his face ever closer between the fat, splayed legs either side of him. His neck chain had almost reached its limit. He was now so close, though, his chin was resting on the rough fabric of the man's trousers, and his nose was inches from the pink flesh exposed between the opened fly.

_Holy crap this guy reeks._

Though he had dominion over this place, it seemed the Pit Boss had not bothered to have himself a proper bathroom built. Or if he did he must hardly have used it, because beneath the soiled, cotton boxers came such a stench it was as if that body had not seen soap in a long time.

One hand released its grey-furred ear, and disappeared for a moment under the fabric underwear. It returned holding something else.

Modo's eyes widened. He knew human males were different from Martian mice, partly from the Pit Boss's fascination with his species, and partly from what he had witnessed the last night he had spent in the pits, but up this close to his face...

_Jeez... it's huge... where does he put it?_

What he meant was more in reference to the ability most other mammalian species possessed – retracting the genitalia into the body when not in use – and not to where the Pit Boss intended to place his organ now.

This part was only just occurring to the mouse. His head was being pulled closer. He could hear the command, but somehow it didn't register.

The order was repeated, and the sudden connection of the long whip to his already tender torso brought him to his senses.

_He wants me to put that in my mouth? No way. It won't fit... No way is that thing fitting in my mouth._

He had no choice but to obey, he opened his mouth as wide as he could, and those rough hands guided his gaping snout into position, pushing him down until it all disappeared.

The moment it touched his tongue and tickled the back of his throat he gagged, but he was being held firmly down, and found himself half choking yet half desperately trying to swallow the acid burning his throat. This seemed to go on and on, his head being pumped up and down, his tongue being forced to acknowledge the vile-tasting, unwashed flesh; his teeth grazing the swollen shaft; his nose brushing against a small forest of dark, wiry hairs.

He didn't dare bite down, although it was seriously tempting. His jaws ached at the girth of the organ between them, and he felt distinctly nauseous at the overwhelming assault on his senses. The final insult was when he felt the warm, salty fluid spraying the back of his throat, before being made to consume it.

It took all his self control to not vomit it all back up. After what had happened to Vinnie, he didn't fancy being forced to reacquaint himself with his own part-digested meal.

His head was pulled upwards, and tilted so that he was forced to look his abuser in the face. He was grinning. The Pit Boss was thoroughly enjoying the humiliation and revulsion he was seeing in the mouse below him. Modo's cheeks were burning, and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, flushing away the remnants of the man's tainted juices.

For a moment the grey mouse thought he was to be lashed again, the sudden movement from his master's arm causing him to startle slightly. But it was only another of those silent gestures the man used, a signal that needed no words but was obeyed instantaneously.

Modo couldn't turn his head, his chin was still firmly in the podgy paw that held it, but his large ears detected heavy foot falls behind him. Someone was approaching him from behind, and he was wearing the typical, thick-soled, leather boots the majority of the pit crew preferred.

The mouse had an idea what was coming, because this is what was done to him the last time he was 'educated' in his basal position in the hierarchy of these people. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, and tried his best to balance himself. He knew it was useless.

The goon took aim and punched those heavy boots into the back of the grey-furred knees, and Modo felt them crumble beneath him. His chin slipped from the fingers that supported it, and as he toppled down and forwards with the force of the kick, his lower jaw slipped back between the gigantic thighs, connecting sharply with the edge of the granite throne.

It knocked him almost senseless for a few seconds, but soon his mind had cleared enough to understand the order he was being given. It told him to get up.

He righted himself. A moment later he was down again.

He righted himself again. And again. And again. But every time he struggled to his feet, the leather sole would strike him down.

_At least they're not using the rod this time._

This is where the deep cuts to his legs had come from, this is the origin of what Throttle had seen when the mouse had first been torn from his clothes. This was what he had to endure in order to please the man who had claimed him, please him enough to divert attention from his smaller, weaker bodied friend. He only hoped it would work this time too. He had nagging feeling it was all in vain.

He lost count of how many times he was ordered to stand only to be forced down again. This was meant to weaken him, and it really was quite effective. Aside from the pain in his head from falling on the stone chair, his legs were so tired from trying to support him, and in so much pain, eventually he gave up the struggle. He was exhausted.

Thankfully he was not punished for this, and was dragged back to his cell by the chain round his neck (nearly choking him in the process) and thrown in.

He groaned as his lay on the cold steel floor, wishing that he had something soft to take the pressure off his complaining joints.

"Bro..? Bro are you ok?" Vinnie had been pacing his tiny cage ever since he was locked in, and now what he was seeing only confirmed his suspicions.

_They've done something to him, something bad... oh bro what have they done?_

Throttle was also gazing at his larger friend, recognising instantly the aftermath of a session with the Pit Boss. He pressed his nose through the bars and inhaled deeply, seeking the tell-tale aromas of the vile acts the men sometimes performed on them.

_At least they didn't do that this time..._

Vinnie was trying to get his bro's attention, whispering questions and reaching out with his tail. Their cages were too far apart for him to touch the shaking mouse.

"Bro, bro what did they do? Modo what did they do?"

Throttle shot the white mouse a look, one that said  _don't ask_. Modo was ignoring him anyway, and the tan mouse knew the last thing he wanted right now was twenty questions.

The grey-furred form prone in the far cage was facing away from both his friends. He was glad of this. He didn't want them to see the wet streaks down his cheeks. This suffering was for him and him alone, and it would remain that way for as long as it was possible. He knew it was only a matter of time before that malodorous monster called his companions in to be taught their place, and for him to be summoned again himself. All he could do was obey, and hope to please the man enough to keep him firmly within the reach of his friends. When the time came for him to step between them and the worst moments of their life, he didn't want to be locked away elsewhere and unable to defend them.


	8. Poker face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are the bad guys really bad? If you have read the whole of Alternative Endings you will see a recurring theme...

When she finally opened her eyes and turned towards him, he felt something so strange, and so unexpected, it almost made him blush. _Relief_. How could he be feeling relief that one of his most irksome of adversaries was actually ok? With years of fighting in their history, him trying to destroy her home (but failing), and her assisting in destroying his home (and succeeding), how could he possibly want this woman to still be with him, still be alive in here with him, in this cold, unpromising situation?

If it was so simple as him needing her to guarantee his own rescue, should that opportunity ever materialise, then he would be satisfied that his own selfish desires were behind the emotion. But there was something more than self-centred instinct working on him right now, and though he wasn't sure what, or why, or where it came from, it still unsettled him.

Regardless of motive, here he was smiling through the bars of his cell as he watched those pink fleshy lids flutter open to reveal her startling, jade-green eyes. She was awake at last. At long last. She had been unconscious for the best part of the day, seven hours since she was returned to her bed by the silent, rough-scaled guards. For a long while he had wondered if she would ever wake, and was reassured of her being alive only by the almost imperceptible rising of her chest.

In contrast to himself, the woman almost never snored. In fact she was nearly always still and quiet in her sleep. Well,  _was_. Not lately. In more recent weeks her sleep had been more restless, and sometimes she had even vocalised her distress at what must have been some really awful nightmares. But even these night time noises quickly died down, and she would resume her steady, calm breathing as she slept on, and roused only when the guards came for her at dawn.

 _She never fights them, so it can't be too terrible what they are doing to her_.

He admired the courage the young Earth woman had shown in here. Billions of miles from home; locked away in the dark-walled prison; trapped on a strange and foul-smelling planet with even stranger, even stinkier alien beings (yes, even he thought his species could do with freshening up, it didn't do their image any good at all); being put through what must be the bush-tucker trial from hell. And yet despite it all she remained strong and mostly unafraid.

_It could be the drugs, maybe without those she might be different._

He on the other hand was a self-certified wuss. When those same guards came to collect him in the woman's absence, he screamed like a child and begged them not to take him again. It was shameful, he knew, but that's how he was, and that is how he always had been. It was an unfortunate flaw in character, for it meant that as an adult almost no one respected him, and as a child almost everyone took advantage of the weakness. He had been bullied mercilessly by his peers for more or less his entire life.

Ah well, he thought, it had at least taught him a few useful things. How to manipulate people, for one thing. Like a small bird pretending to have a broken wing to lure away predators from its nest, he too had learned to feign injury to give him a longer term advantage. Pity it was of no use in here.

Limburger shuddered at his own dark memories. Being a liar and a cheat had probably cost more than it gained him if he was honest about it.

The woman in the next cell was rising now. She was rubbing her eyes, the shaft of light from the late afternoon sun was penetrating her window's bars and hitting her directly on that pale, drawn face. Her sensitivity to light was becoming more and more pronounced as the days passed, no doubt a result of being locked up in the gloom for so long. But she didn't shy away from it. Charley needed the light, no matter how painful it was, no matter how much it inflamed her already pulsing headache.

"Urgh... don't tell me... it's late. The sun only comes through like this when it's late. How long this time, fish face?"

Limburger ignored the insult, he had plenty of his own retorts to draw from when he felt like it, but today he just let it go.

"You keep forgetting our days are different from Earth's. I guess you would say it's around 6.30pm, late summer."

At first the fish had found it tedious trying to convert Earth day lengths to those here on Plutark, but as the woman was practically a genius she had taken it on board quite quickly. The only problem was the drugs made her forgetful, or else too tired to work it out for herself. Or else she just wanted him to talk to her. Seriously, the latter option was becoming more and more likely.

"Oh great, that makes it... what, six hours this time?"

"Seven"

"Jeez i'm sleeping my life away."  _Maybe that's not such a bad thing._

Charley managed to heave herself off the thread-bare cot and stumble to the window. She hung onto the bars for a moment, bathing herself in the hazy, orange glow of the afternoon, before resigning herself to the inevitable requirement of her bodily functions.

She didn't even have to tell him, he turned and walked away to the front of his cell, leaving her with the privacy she needed. Seven hours on top of however long she had been in the lab - it was a wonder she hadn't peed the bed. At least she had quickly learned to use the toilet  _before_  the guards hauled her out the door in the morning.

The Plutarkian leant his forehead against his own door, the tarnished metal pressing into his mask and giving him the sensation of its coolness. A part of him longed to ditch that mask; it was very loose on his face now, and chafed his scales as he talked. But a part of him held him back from ripping the rubber from his head, the part that felt the human visage was a deep-seated part of his identity, another side to his persona. A side he had grown to care for, nurtured, loved even. On Earth he had something close to status, which he was severely lacking in at home. No. Earth was home now. He hated this desolate, strip-mined planet, and almost everyone who lived here. Even though he had done his best to ruin the blue and green planet's beauty (beyond what the feckless human race had already achieved by themselves), if he had a choice he would rather live the rest of his life there surrounded by the temptation of such resources, and as an outcast of his kind. There, rather than here, begging to be allowed his freedom in exchange for the chance to destroy that other place.

What he must do to gain that freedom was distinctly distasteful, even to someone like him. Perhaps they had sensed his new-found love for that other world, and like his childhood foes they sought to exploit it. A weakness? Maybe. Maybe it was his own kind's weakness, maybe there was something to be manipulated after all.

They hadn't taken him today. This was a good thing, he was tired, and more still he had been anxious about the Earth woman sharing this miserable place. It was getting harder and harder for him to rouse her, she slept longer and longer each time she returned, and was more and more confused each time she awoke. Today was an exception, really, aside from the length of her deep slumber. His voice hadn't reached her at all, but she was at least more alert when she came too.

_Perhaps the sleep helps. Maybe I shouldn't try to wake her up._

He could hear the bubbling sound that signified she had finished her business, but he didn't return immediately. He knew she might want time to freshen up. A human body, not even a female one, had no effect on him anyway. Unlike some species, Plutarkians were not the perverted kind. Rape was unheard of here. Their reproductive systems were so different from any other alien species, he felt little or no sexual desire towards females other than his own kind. Charley must have sensed this, his lack of interest, but he still felt the need to give her privacy. Humans were one of the most reserved beings he had ever encountered. Martians, for example, were practically whores by comparison.

Limburger allowed himself a quiet chuckle. In his early days on Mars he had lost track of the amount of times he had stumbled upon the bizarre mating rituals of the rodent species. He wasn't sure which amused him more, the rats or the mice, though again compared to the sand raiders...  _nothing_  could compare to those.

"Hey, i'm done."

The mechanic was actually calling him. He still couldn't get used to this, she wanting to talk to him. The first month here she had done everything she could to ignore him, to try to make him shut up. Since that moment when he had told her how he kept track of the days, she had suddenly not wanted to shut him out.

"So... remember anything this time?"

Charley's eyes had widened at this question. She was faltering, trying to think of a suitable response.

"Err... no... only the usual: the lab, the alien - that's it."

He knew she was lying. Those dreams weren't just dreams, they were memories haunting her subconscious, and her unconscious. He wasn't as stupid as she took him for, though he suspected she probably knew this too.

"Oh well never mind, probably for the best." Limburger tried to convey an almost taunting quality to the reply, hinting that he knew something about the experiments on her, which of course he didn't. But it was a game the two of them played. She pretended she had no recollection of her experiences (beyond what she had finally revealed to him), and he pretended he knew what was happening. It was a wonder the two of them could keep a straight face. They had to, though, because neither of them were going to say anything that would tell their ever-present wardens what they really knew.

"I'd kill for a pack of cards right now." This was Charley's contribution to the joke. A reference to the concealment of intentions needed to play certain games.

"I told you I have more layers, I would win and you know it." This was his own input. He knew very well that humans enjoyed the lowering of their famous inhibitions through a good game of strip poker.

"Only 'cos of your mask. Cheat." The woman smiled. Limburger thought he was good at hiding his emotions behind that moulded rubber, but in truth his attempts at deception were given away through the other tiny displays his body made. The slight twitch of his right thumb (or whatever it was, they didn't really have thumbs), the almost un-seen jerk of his left foot, the tiny wheeze as he inhaled when he tried to cover the lie he had just uttered. Having spent a lot of time observing him recently, these tells had made themselves apparent to her. So she knew he would be hopeless, no matter how many layers of clothing that adorned him.

"Maybe. Maybe..." Secretly the mask would be the last thing Limburger would choose to remove from his body. But not because he thought he could hide behind it. He felt more naked without it covering his face than without the plush velvet hanging loosely from his shrinking abdomen.

They fell silent again for a while. Both were waiting for the arrival of their evening meal, and the growling of their empty stomachs filled the gap left by their muted voices.

It arrived on time, as usual. The guards approached the woman's cell with a tray loaded with a variety of gut-churning beasties, and she fought back the urge to vomit before having even consumed them; stuffing the vile things down her throat before her body could protest.

His mouth was watering at the veritable feast she had just been given. His door opened and he leapt up to receive his own dinner, but the guards were standing there empty handed.

"What, where's mine? That's not fair!  Where's mine?" Limburger was wondering if this was another part of his punishment, being starved of the only thing a Plutarkian enjoyed more than grand-theft planet.

"No food, you're coming with us." That was the only explanation they were giving him, but they didn't need to say more. They were forcing his wrists into shackles behind his back, shoving him roughly against his cell bars to prevent him struggling. Somehow he managed to hold back the scream building in his throat. He didn't want to scare the woman... or admit he was more afraid than she at the things being done to him.

From the corner of his eyes he could see her staring at him, open-mouthed, mid-chew. She had never seen him be taken before, and he could tell that even though her drug-fogged eyes she could see the fear he was unable to hide, mask or no mask.

It was only when he felt sure they were beyond the reach of her acute hearing that he finally broke down. He screamed in terror, pleading with the guards to take him back, to spare him from what was coming next. He was sobbing, shaking, crying through his sagging mask. He struggled against the guard's strong grip, realising that the lack of nourishment was slowly weakening him. His mind was racing, thoughts and memories bombarding him with painful images of his demise. Yet one thought stood alone amongst the cloud of self-preservation.  _Will she still be there when I return?_

Back in the age-worn cell the woman was sat frozen on the floor, her mouth still full of half-chewed slime worm, her hands still grasping the plastic meal tray. The scream that had reached her even though several locked doors had stunned her, and the shiver than ran up through her spine positively chilled her. Whatever they were doing to her neighbour must be far, far worse than the treatment she was receiving, she thought, for she had never in her whole life heard that fish-scaled man utter a sound so unnerving, and so pitiful, as the one that she had just experienced.


	9. Surprises

The first chance he got Modo had whispered in his ear and explained. He had told him that sometimes, several times, each of them would be singled out, and that what went on during those sessions was not necessarily something any of them would ever want to talk about. It would be bad, he had said, and no one would think less of him for keeping the details to himself. Like he had done. Like Throttle had done. The only reason Vinnie had any idea of what had happened to them was through the sharing of his memories, and those such times had slipped through the connection despite having been buried the deepest in his mind.

So it came as something of a surprise to him, to all of them, when it finally happened but not as they expected. They were in the procession back to the prison, tail to nose, other slaves trailing ahead and behind, when one of the guards stepped up to pull one of them out of line. Even knowing it was inevitable did not stop his bro from reacting. Throttle's whimpers of fear turned several heads that day, and earned many a slave a sharp lash or two for holding up the rest as they stared.

He was being pulled by his iron collar – the latest addition to the heavy adornments on their bodies – which was then fastened to a short, metal leash. Maybe things would have been different if they had managed to get him out of there a little quicker, but the guard holding the chain paused to receive a communicae, which also gave the tan mouse longer to succumb to his anxious anticipation. Modo had seen the steady, yellow flow from his friend's body to the damp puddle forming beneath him, and had it not been for yet something else he wouldn't have been able to stop himself.

He would have leapt onto his bro and refused to budge, the switch inside his mind transforming him instantly from docile and obedient slave to raging protector, flicking on as it had done when they had been shaved. But he didn't get the chance this time.

There was a voice on the guard's radio. It was giving him new instructions. It said ' _bring him too_.'

_Bring who? Who else?_

The grey mouse hadn't had time to fully process the thought when a second guard was pulling on his own collar. His paternal instincts were evolving with the situation; now he knew he had to keep quiet and go with them. If he tried to stop them now they might alter their plans for him, and he might miss out on the chance to help his smaller friend. The scent of Throttle's panic in his bodily fluids was almost overwhelming the more sensible, logical part of his brain, but somehow he held it together. He had to.

Modo glanced back at the other mouse for a moment, trying to convey several messages in a single expression. He was trying to tell him this was not normal, this didn't usually happen, not often. He was trying to ask him not to worry, to keep calm and to not do anything stupid.  _We will be back soon, I promise. Don't give them an excuse to harm you whilst we're gone..._

And so Vinnie had watched in confusion as his two bros had been led away, and he had been forced to continue the slow, shuffled walk back to his cage without them.

Whilst distinctly worried for his two friends, especially after the warning he had been given, he was feeling even more anxious for himself. Alone he felt vulnerable, exposed; he didn't know yet all that might be expected of him, and should something arise that he didn't know how to deal with without their direction (a single look could convey more than words between the three of them) he was afraid he might make a mistake, and a costly one at that.

Thankfully he was locked inside his cage without incident. The leather harnesses were always shed before leaving the mining pit, so he only had to walk into his cage and wait for the door to lock behind him, without the need for any further interaction from the guards. It would be an hour or so before his evening meal appeared, during which time all the slaves were counted, and any absentees accounted for. Obviously his two bros would be on the latter list tonight.

Vinnie shuffled around in the small space he had to live in, trying to find an easy, comfortable way of resting from the heavy work. His bros tended to flop down onto their backsides, before rolling on their backs and then coming to rest on one side. He noticed that they changed sides frequently, trying their best to avoid the inevitable sores that would appear on their joints without such necessary vigilance.

Personally, he found that method to be less than comfortable, as it offered little in the way of heat preservation in the cold of the night. He had been experimenting with curling himself up, folding his elbows and knees in once he reached the sitting position. It wasn't that difficult, he discovered, the middle chain didn't prevent it, just got in the way a little. He wondered why they hadn't figured it out for themselves, especially as they were half way there already when they were trying to lie down.

_Maybe they just hurt too much to do this._

He had to admit that it was better having his back leaning up against the bars, which with the lashes across his body made it much less comfortable. A few of the lines reached further down, including the freshest of the deep cuts he had been given today. Yes, it was definitely not a nice feeling curling up like this when the wounds were pressing against the cold metal floor. But if he gritted his teeth hard enough, the added warmth from such a position would hopefully provide enough comfort to get him through the pain.

The voices reached him just as he had managed to find that tiny spot of comfort. He had hoped to rest a while until his meal came, but the exchange going on within his earshot (though probably not within the range of anyone else's hearing) kept his mind focused and unable to relax. It was an argument of sorts, one person being assertive, the other resisting. It was more the tone, the intonation in their speech, that alerted him to the nature of the discussion, rather than the words themselves.

_Damn them, I just wanted to sleep... pass the time 'til my bros get back._

Rest was so precious down here he took every opportunity he could for it. He felt irritated that he would miss out this time. And worse, he would have to deal with the anxiety he felt rather than just push it away.

He tried to force his ears to shut out the unwelcome sounds, and his brain to blank out the dim, unpleasant world around him. For a short while he thought he had succeeded, but then he realised the voices had been replaced by footsteps. A single set of heavy footfalls, and they were heading directly towards him.

In the few seconds it took for this to register, he had managed to haul himself back onto his feet. Facing whatever was coming in a standing position was a better tactic than staying down. Even though being chained on all-fours restricted him greatly, he still thought that, in an emergency, he might be able to propel himself away just fast enough to put distance between him and whatever he needed to get away from.

He had composed himself just before the man reached the door of his cage. He recognised him from the tunnels, and from the throne room. Stood before him was the head goon, the Pit Boss's number one. Why he was here and not wherever his bros were he didn't know. Perhaps he wasn't needed there for whatever ordeal they were being subjected to, but rather he was needed here, in the prison... or here, at the front of his cage.  _His_  cage.

_Oh crap. I hope he ain't here for what I think he is._

The white mouse responded to this thought by curling his long tail tightly around his right leg. He didn't dare wrap it around the other, partly because the burn still hurt like hell, and partly from something else he had sensed the night Modo had first been taken. Like it or not, once the mouse had opened the depths of his mind to him, certain thoughts or impressions that he had could not be concealed from his younger friend anymore. As he slept that night, Vinnie had had vague images in his dreams of a grey tail around an old scar, and an angry voice, and an even angrier hand tearing it away.

"Aaah, so you are learning, you insubordinate pest. Swipe that thing at my face again and I swear I will chop it off myself. Understand?"

Vinnie nodded, trying his best to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down. This was something else he had learned in his time here. Eye contact was near enough a form of provocation, and as the head of the pit crew (under the Pit Boss himself) he was to be granted almost the same level of respect as his employer.

The head goon was leaning on the top edge of the cage, staring down in a kind of hungry curiosity at the prisoner locked inside. Just because he wasn't required for torturing the other two giant mice right now, he thought, didn't mean he wasn't allowed to have some fun of his own.

The grin was slowly spreading across his face. This was an opportunity not to be ignored, and it was brilliant really, because of all the slaves he could choose from to abuse, this one had to be the most helpless of the lot.

Vinnie swallowed nervously as he heard the cage door unlock, swinging open to allow the rough hands to access his collar and attach him to the metal leash. He felt the tug of the chain, and followed its guidance without resistance. It was leading him away from the prison yard, away from the countless faces observing him, and out into the gravelly space of beyond. And towards the front door of the metal-workshop.

For a moment Vinnie wondered if this had been his plan all along, to take him to the metal shop and have the slight-framed welder provide some other means of humiliating him. Certainly he was being led to the front door, but not all the way. His neck chain was tethered outside, on the same ring to which his wrists had been locked to before his specialised shackles had been made. He had a sensation of déjà vu, and the accompanying memory made him all the more nervous about his current visit.

_What's going to happen this time? What else can they possibly do to me in there?_

Between the shackles, the branding, the harness, and now the collar, the mouse was struggling to imagine what else might be in store for him behind the wooden door of the modest-sized workshop.

The head goon was knocking on that same door, and growled impatiently under his breath. Moments later it was answered, and Vinnie could see even from where he was standing that the visit was not welcomed.

"What is it now, Flint? You know I have a schedule to keep."

"What is it now? You know what I want, and I don't give a crap about your so-called schedule. You can make up the time tonight, unless you want to spend the night making up for it elsewhere?"

There was a dangerous threat lurking in those words, and Vinnie detected the slight, sharp intake of breath that meant Wes had got the message.

"Fine. Bring him in."

The metal-worker had already turned back into his shop, and his voice was muffled by the sound of some machine inside, which he was apparently now turning off. But the mouse still did a double-take. Something he had just caught as the man's voice trailed off in the din.

_Am I going mad, or did he just say..?_

No, he thought, no, not possible. Not a man like Wes. No way.

Flint was unhooking the chain and leading him inside the workshop, the familiarity of which made his stomach turn a few harsh somersaults.

"I don't see why I can't just get on with my work, why don't you just... help yourself, or whatever. You don't need me, really... do you?" Wes was looking hopefully at the forge and the iron he had been working on. The Pit Boss had a long list of things he wanted making, and if he didn't get it done on time he most definitely would not be pleased.

The head goon was assessing this question. He stood there, his free hand caressing the short hairs of his trimmed, auburn beard, his other resting on his hip with the chain still grasped tightly in his palm. Compared to the other man, Flint was easily twice his weight. He was taller, though not by much, but his girth more than made up for the weight difference. He wasn't fat though, unlike the Pit Boss, but laden with huge, well-defined muscles, and a broad frame that supported all that power. He could have easily squashed the smaller man into the ground if he wished, but he seemed to refrain from this – possibly because his employer had deemed the metal-moulding man useful.

Flint's eyes were dark, and hard. His square jaw-line emphasised the look, the meanness, the brute behind the muscles. His entire look, his posture, his demeanour, all of it emanated strength, and dominance. If Vinnie had thought Wes was not one to be messed with, this hulking man was in a league of his own, and most definitely not one to cross.

"My crew tell me this one has a problem keeping his mouth shut, a fact I know to be true." Flint glanced at the small scars on his hand, the imprint of the white mouse's central incisors. "I want to shut him up with something, something I know you must have in this little... 'shack'... of yours somewhere."

Wes considered the larger man for a few minutes, and the prisoner below him. He also knew the mouse was having difficulty adjusting to this life, though he hadn't thought this was about him having bitten half the men who had fought to bring him in. He had assumed it was the inability for the mouse to understand his lack of freedom of speech, an oversight that no doubt would end him up in serious trouble one day.

Teaching the mouse to keep his trap shut now might just save him from an ugly future in which he might never talk again.

_Perhaps this request is not such a waste of my time after all..._

"Right... and how permanent does this need to be?"

Flint would have dearly loved for it to be very permanent, but he knew his boss would not allow it. There were useful things to be done with these rodent's mouths, so whatever he did now definitely had to be reversible.

"Not permanent. Just temporary... a gag, or something."

"Hmm let's see then..."  _Is that all, he just wants a gag? What's wrong with a piece of cloth, or some tape?_

Wes suspected it was just a chance for the goon to assert some authority over both the mouse and him alike.

_I guess I better make this good then, anything to get rid of that ignorant thug._

As it turned out, this sort of suggestion had been put to him before, and he knew exactly what to dig out of his cupboard full of metal devices. He straightened up, and presented his superior with something vaguely resembling a miniature harness.

"This bit, the bit, goes inside... the rest around his head. Tighten this... and this.. and then this, and there you have it. Mouse with no mouth." His verbal demo was illustrated by a physical indication of the head gear's use, and the goon nodded with a satisfied smile.

"Well, put it on him then, I haven't got all night!"

_How ironic, my thoughts exactly._

"Open up, little mouse, this may be the last chance you get for a while." Wes's humour did not inspire anything good in the shivering Martian, but he obeyed nonetheless.

Vinnie opened his mouth, and the metal bit was shoved in over his tongue without any hesitation. The steel was cold and hard, and heavy on his pink flesh. He could feel the leather straps sliding over his snout, and around his ears and his chin and his head, and the metal loops that joined each section together pressing against his cheeks. He felt the halter tighten as the buckles were pulled, and with each strap adjusted to his face, he also felt his jaw clamp shut. Now the bit was trapped between his teeth, and the edges of the bar poked out of his mouth at the corners. The straps were tightened further. The bit dug into his cheeks. It was a horrible, horrible feeling.

 _Now I know how a horse feels, only worse I think_.

"Speak, mouse." Wes wanted to be sure the gag worked before seeing off the goon.

There was no way. He grunted, tried to make noises, but that was all that came out. Just the muffled sounds in his throat, nothing from his lips.

"Excellent. Now, if I did want this to be more permanent?"

"Then you would have to get the boss to endorse it. I'm not getting in trouble for that, I don't care what you say." Wes paused, searching for any indication he has crossed that line. "Now if you don't mind, I really do have work to do."

Wes was about to turn away when the larger man planted his fist into his high-boned cheek. It knocked him from where he was standing, but either the welder had anticipated it and thus braced himself, or else the punch lacked any real determination. Either way, he staggered, but did not fall down.

"I decide when you get back to work, _slave_ , not you. Do you understand or do I have to make it clear?" Flint was purple in the face, and spitting his ire at the other man, who was now sporting the beginnings of a black eye. "Well... do I?"

Vinnie couldn't help but notice two things. One being that the goon sounded just like his boss, and the second... Well, it explained a lot. Wes wasn't a goon. He wasn't even really part of the pit crew. His pallor, his thinness, it had reminded the mouse of the condition his bros had been in when he had rescued them. Only somehow he was stronger; somehow this man had climbed the hierarchy, rose up and out of the slave pit, and earned himself a rank above the other prisoners.

It was perplexing. How could someone who knew what it was like to be whipped and caged turn into the man who had subsequently chained and branded them? Perhaps the use of the term 'slave' meant something different for him. Maybe he had never worked in the mine. Maybe he had traded some of his freedoms in order to be spared that life.

That man clearly wasn't like any of the other captives. He straightened himself up, and looked the goon straight in the eyes before answering.

"No, Sir, you do not. But your Boss gives me my orders, not you. I have work to do. Now get out before I go and tell him you are setting me back on fulfilling his requests."

 _Wow, he is either very fucking brave - or a suicidal lunatic!_.

The goon glared, and yanked hard on the chain tethering the mouse to him. Vinnie could hear the door slam behind him as he was dragged away, and he had an awful feeling that the bad mood that Flint was now in was soon going to be vented... on _him_.


	10. Bad day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another lesson in alien biology...

It wasn't until the next afternoon, when she finally lifted her drug-heavy lids to the orange gleam on her face, that she knew he had returned. She had no idea how long he had been, of course, but whenever it was that he reappeared he hadn't tried to wake her. Either he had decided to let her body come to of its own accord, or he simply wasn't able to bring himself to speak.

Looking at him now from where she lay, she guessed the latter. He was on his own bunk, his back to her, but she could tell by the way he breathed that he wasn't asleep, but that he was awake and very unhappy.

_I wonder what they did to him... he's never normally this bad._

But then, she thought, he normally only went for a few hours at a time, and not more than half a day, or even nearly a full day if he had only recently been brought back.

Despite feeling decidedly rough herself - her headache was now a migraine and the afternoon sun half blinded her whilst her temples stabbed with pain - she felt she had to know if her cell mate was himself alright.

"Limburger? Hey fish-face, are you ok?" Though using a less than endearing form of address, her voice was soft and gentle. Much like he had spoken to her when he had tried to rouse her from her sedation, only her motives were purer. She was practically maternal right now.

He wasn't responding, so she tried again.

"Hey. I know you're probably feeling like crap right now, I know I do, but if you want to talk about it... believe me it helps, it really does. And I'm right here if you need me."

_If you need me? Jeez, like this fat flounder needs babying anymore than he has been._

For a long time Limburger refused to acknowledge her, and stayed quite still on his cot. The silence gave the woman time to deal with her own problems, which she desperately needed because this was probably the worst she had ever felt in this place.

Aside from the pain, sickness and the flashing lights disturbing her vision, the symptoms of the migraine were only really the after-effects of the earlier assault on her brain. Through her foggy wakefulness, from deep inside her mind, she could recall with some clarity a very important, very disturbing set of memories.

There was the usual, as well: her long walk to the basement lab; the many-armed machine being attached to her; the smooth-skinned, silent alien pressing his buttons and sending her asleep. That was all there, as it always was. But this time she knew more. She hadn't really gone to sleep. Not all of her, just a part of her. And the following memories were really quite... unusual.

Or strange, or scary, or worse. There were so many words to describe what she saw, and yet none really fitted. After the lab she remembered the room with the machines. Now that she had seen it a few times she was able to draw comparisons with other, similar set-ups she knew of. It reminded her of the early computers on Earth, so huge they filled entire rooms. Except she was certain these computer-like machines were not primitive, but in fact very, very advanced.

Next she had seen another room, more like a workshop. She realised this was where her initial confusion had arisen. Her mind had tried to merge the two places into one, but they were definitely separate. There were other rooms, too, but she hadn't seen enough of them for them to make a vivid enough impression. The same went for the other people she kept seeing. Still just vague images, alien beings she could not identify amongst others she had seen before. She was certain a few of them were Martian, though no one she had personally encountered. And there were definitely the odd fish-like beings.

 _Plutarkians working with the mice? My head must be more messed up than I realise_.

The strangeness of her visions, her memories and her dreams of these places, were constantly called into question in her reasoning. Charley was very well aware the whole thing could be a figment of her drugged imagination, or some kind of psychosis from being locked away and experimented on. But if they weren't the hallucinations of a crazy woman, then she had every reason to be feeling so uneasy about what she was seeing.

She felt sure that this time they had spoken to her, though like always all the voices were muffled and indistinct. Except for one. This time one had reached her. A computerised sound, a voice on a radio perhaps. Either way the digitizing of the message had somehow changed it enough to allow her brain to process it, and the words stuck in her mind now and she could not shut them out.

_Perimeter down at target twelve, awaiting your command._

Charley hadn't been able to perceive the reply, whatever it was, but she felt sure that this 'target twelve' had just been blasted to pieces by whoever these people were. As she hadn't discerned any noticeable differences in and around the prison, target twelve was not anywhere she was within range of now.

What she had just witnessed, or else just been a part of, was perturbing to say the least. Every indication told her that somewhere, out there, a place had just been destroyed, and that she might even be responsible. Or partly responsible.

Were the Plutarkians using her somehow in their incessant march across the cosmos, a vehicle of knowledge, perhaps, or just simply as a vessel for a more clever mind to control? Had she given away vital intel to the enemy that allowed them to seek out their targets, or had she simply helped build the weapons that would annihilate them? There were so many possibilities, but however she had been used... whatever she had been used for... she had still been used.

Used. Abused. Corrupted? What else had her body or mind been put to? What other grisly tasks had she participated in? Or orchestrated?

_Oh god, what if target twelve was Earth, or Mars. Oh guys._

The guys, she had almost forgotten them. Where were they now? Where they still looking for her? Did they even make it out the tunnels alive? Did they know what she was doing out here? That she was helping to destroy places, and people too no doubt? Were those Martians she saw in contact with them, relaying her evil deeds and turning her only hope of rescue against her?

She shuddered. There was nothing good she could make out of any of this.

Her mind would have gone on like this for the rest of the day had it not been for someone calling her back to reality. Limburger was finally up.

"Charley? Is that you?"

 _Did he just called me Charley? Not meddlesome mechanic, or aggravating Earthling? Is that... fear... I hear in his voice_?

"Yeah, it's me, i'm here. Are you ok?"

He was nodding and shaking his head, his words and expressions not agreeing. He said yes, his body said no. He said no, but he was trying too hard to look like he was fine. He clearly wasn't.

"Limburger? What did they do - what happened to you?"

He was rising from his cot, he was turning to face her properly. Something was different about him, but she couldn't tell what. Aside from the misery and the confusion she had not seen before on his masked face, that is. He was holding his stomach as if in pain. She wondered if skipping that last meal, the last two meals probably, had had a worse effect on him than she had realised. For a Plutarkian he was practically starving.

His rubber lips were turned down, his purple eyes watering. Pain and sadness. Fear, and disgust. He was rubbing his belly again. His belly? He had a belly now? His stomach had been flat before he left last night.

"Uh... you got stomach ache?" He was nodding, she ventured further. "They made you eat something bad?"

He shook his head. She could hear his stomach growling, he definitely hadn't been given anything to eat.

"Tell me, Limburger, what is it? What did they do?"

Charley had never before considered what kind of tortures a Plutarkian would mete out to another of its own kind. She had heard of humiliating punishments, like being forced to clean bathrooms with their tongues, or prostrating themselves before the high chairman in front of others, making themselves the focal point of verbal abuse. Heck, even the traditional greeting was a form of humiliation for some fish. She knew Limburger despised it.

The purple-suited man was lowering himself back onto his bunk, still cradling his abdomen. Charley pushed through her own pain and managed to haul herself from her cot, and staggered over to the barred divide between their cells. She lowered her body onto the floor so that her head was just above his mattress, and by his pillow.

He didn't lie down though. He sat back, leaning against the wall so that he faced her.

Secretly the woman was glad he had his shoes on, because the proximity to his feet was verging on toxic exposure should he remove them.

She waited, but still he didn't open up.

Charley didn't know why she did it, or how she could even bring herself to do it, but it had worked for her before with her friends, with her family, with anyone who had been in need of comfort. This nearly always broke the barrier, and allowed the dam of emotion to flow unchecked to her waiting ears. She was a listener. This was her way of helping.

Placing her delicate yet strong fingers onto his ankle, and giving it a gentle squeeze was all it took. The surprise on his face. It loosened his tongue, and the words began to tumble out.

By the time he had finished, Charley was glad she was not a member of this sadistic, scale-covered species. She knew that Plutarkians were capable of cruelty beyond anything she had known even amongst her own kind, and that it extended well beyond one-on-one physical harm and reached the levels of planetary devastation; cold and calculated theft, extortion, bullying, destruction, enslavement, experimentation. She knew of all that. Vinnie's mask, Throttle's eyes, Modo's arm. Karbunkle a mere pawn in the terrible games the Plutarkians played with other worlds and their inhabitants.

But the punishments extended to their own kind. Her hairs were standing on end just imagining it.

She didn't know what to say. She squeezed the velvet trouser leg again, before slumping back against the bars, trying to come to terms with the nature of her neighbour's present existence. And of her own. Truly, for both of them, this really had been a bad day. And his haunting recollection of his own experiences of abuse really had brought it home to her:

_You humans assume that the other species on your planet are somehow lesser beings, that they do not experience the world as you do, and thus are less important, less deserving of your sympathies. What if I was to tell you that my species perceives the world much in the way the fish species on your world do? Would that make you care more for them, or less for mine?_

_What if I told you that our greatest fear is suffocation? Would you believe me? We have gills for underwater, we have lungs for the air. This is how we differ from Earth fish. But take either away and we are capable of drowning, or suffocating, just like you and your fish can._

_What if I told you the scales on our bodies were as sensitive, if not more, as your finger nails? Sure, you can file and trim your nails without any feeling at all, but what happens when you rip one, tear one, pull one out? Does that not hurt you?_

_What if I told you that taking the wrong kind of bath, a swim in the wrong kind of water, could kill me in less than twenty minutes? I'm not just talking toxic waste here. You know we are resistant to many toxins, heck we even consume things that would kill most other species. But if you shoved me in the dead sea I wouldn't float, like you would, I wouldn't get out and rinse off the salt, and wonder at the marvels of nature. If I was even still alive, I would dearly wish I wasn't._

_What if I told you that, unlike your fish I can hear despite lacking external ears, but like your fish I have a line of sensory organs down my body that are capable of detecting even the tiniest electrical impulses? Can you imagine what it would be like? You know how your eyes are hurting with the light now, after just a few months in half darkness. Can you imagine having a level of sensitivity almost 100 times stronger... do you think you could cope?_

Limburger had paused at this point, closing his eyes and framing his face into a picture of torment. So far he had the woman's attention. He was getting her to think. There were things you could do to a fish that would never even cross a mammal's mind.

He had continued his tale in barely a whisper, the words themselves almost as hard to endure as the torture itself. He lifted his jacket and pointed to a bare, weeping patch of skin just below his rib cage.

_They started here, first... then moved elsewhere. Just a few at a time. But that was enough. Then came the salt. Not enough to kill. Just enough. The wrap around my neck... I couldn't breathe, I didn't want to breathe in the salt, but in the fresh water bath I did, I wanted to so it could flush it out of my gills, but I couldn't. It was inside me, burning. But I couldn't breathe it out at all._

Tears were slipping down the front of his mask now. By the crystal trail left as the water evaporated, it was clear that most of the salt was still trapped within his bodily fluids.

He lifted his jacket higher, showing the wide-eyed woman at his side the tiny nodules tracing the length of his lateral line.

_All it takes is a few wires, and a current. It doesn't have to be strong. A few volts. That's all they needed. It takes a lot more than that to upset a human, but for us, it just needs a double-A battery in the right spot..._

If Limburger had stopped there, Charley would still have been left feeling sorry enough for him as it was. But the last thing he went onto describe made her heart positively bleed for him.

"How long have you got 'til?"

"About a month. Give or take a few days."

"And... will that be it? How bad?" Charley was trying to decide if nine months followed by one excruciating event was better or worse than one month followed by potentially hundreds of excruciating moments.

"Depends. If they're from the spawning line it will be the worst. From a brooder line, probably not too much worse than for anyone else, but still bad for someone like me"

"Which do you think it will be?" Charley was a quick learner, even his brief description of his species' reproductive strategies painted a good enough picture in her mind of what was going on.

"Knowing Camembert probably a spawner. For me i'm sure he's picked a spawner."

"Jeez.  And when will you know? On the day?"

"In a couple of weeks. By then the size difference will be obvious."

Limburger groaned and rubbed his swollen belly. Even he had not considered his punishment would be extended this far. For some this might be considered an honour, bearing the young of the High Chairman, but he knew better. He was sure plenty of males had offered themselves up for the role, offering to take the place that evidently Camembert himself was unable to fulfil. But these males would all be from the brooding line. No male in their right mind would offer to brood if they were a spawner. And it was his own misfortune that he was a spawner... and that his boss kept detailed records of each and every family line.

After having his scales pulled out, his body burned by salt, suffocated, and then electrocuted, Limburger had been subjected to one of the most humiliating punishments a male fish could ever dread being given.

They had lain his naked body down on his back to expose his cloaca, which was sited much more anteriorly than the openings to some other vertebrates – though not so far forward as most Earth fish. Like them, though, there was only the one opening, and solid wastes and reproductive excretions all exited the same way, brought there via their own separate ducts. Like fish, like reptiles, like birds. But not like mammals.

In spawners, females expelled their eggs through this opening, usually into some kind of nursery pool. Spawning males would fertilise the eggs externally. If paired with a brooder male, the male would either use a specialised evagination of his cloaca to fertilise her internally before she spawned, or else he would use this organ to draw the eggs inside him, and do it there. Then it was up to him if he released the clutch or not. Brooder males had an internal compartment, a sort of womb.. or incubation chamber... which was also the part that extruded out to collect the eggs. It could pull back inside and contain the eggs until they hatched, and then the fry would make their own way out into the world.

For a brooder male, this was nothing really, for his body was perfectly capable of accommodating even the largest of clutches, and the opening to the outside could be consciously controlled by him if need be.

Obviously, brooder females usually kept their eggs inside their own chamber, but if for some reason she wasn't able to carry the young (if she was damaged, or sick, or too old) then she could pass her offspring off to a brooder male. The eggs of a brooder very rarely survived an external spawning.

Spawner males had no need for a brooding chamber, but still retained a vestigial pouch, and a rudimentary opening from his sperm ducts; though it could barely be considered an opening for it was practically fused shut. For this reason, brooder females were reluctant to partner spawner males. If something went wrong with her, it was unlikely that her mate would willing volunteer to brood her eggs. Surrogacy was rife amongst Plutarkians.

Now, whether or not Camembert was a brooder or a spawner, he wasn't likely to ever take on the role of pregnant father due to his high rank and political duties. And if his wife was a brooder, then unless she was unable to carry her own young, allowing her eggs to be implanted in Limburger made her just as sadistic as her husband. For she had to willingly force the eggs out of her in order for the transfer to be made, because surgically removing them was too risky for either mother or her offspring. There was no way Camembert would want to damage his own progeny.

The female fish had deposited her eggs into a container filled with a special fluid to protect the undeveloped roe. Limburger had seen what was coming, the eggs, the giant syringe heading toward his opening. The eggs were transferred into the barrel of the syringe, and a huge, large bore needle pressed onto its end.

Before they could go through the with procedure, a camera had been inserted to find the opening. It was no good going in there blind, they had to be sure the eggs were able to be deposited inside the chamber, and where the entry point for it lay.

The camera was bad enough, but the needle was worse. He felt the cold steel slip inside, and he felt the sharp tip puncture the fused opening. He felt it push further in, reaching into the tiny space of the vestigial chamber. A normal brooder would have a much larger chamber, but his was going to have to stretch considerably to accommodate such a huge clutch.

Camembert was watching the whole thing in exultant delight. His useless subordinate was howling with pain as the plunger was pushed, and as his belly began to swell. It was all the more enjoyable because it had to be done slowly... they couldn't take the risk of rushing it and rupturing the precious, tiny sac.

It had taken over half an hour to fill him, and afterwards he had been re-dressed and led back to his cell. Limburger had returned whilst his neighbour was asleep, and despite the desperate cramping inside his abdomen he kept quiet. He tried his best not to make a sound as he lay his trembling body down, and kept his mouth tight shut as he adjusted himself to try and get comfortable on the mattress.

He knew it wouldn't be long before he could tell if these were spawner eggs or not. Spawners tended to have larger young, as there was more space in a hatchery for them to grow than inside a brooding chamber. If this was the case his belly would swell faster, and when the time came for them to hatch, their emergence from his body would be one of the most unpleasant, most demeaning birthings in the entire cosmos.

And if he lived, he would no doubt spend the rest of his life bearing young for his planet's leader, because that was all he was now deemed fit for. If he couldn't provide resources then he would provide his body as a nursery. When he eventually outlived that use there was one more thing they could do with him, and right now he wasn't sure if he really wanted to live long enough to see that day come.


	11. A precious moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mice get a rest, but still hints of abuse.

How long they had been down here now he had no idea. There was no way to keep record of the passing days, and no real way of knowing just how long each day was. All they could go by was the dimming of the lights after their shift, but this did not mean anything in a world without the sun. For all he knew they might work for longer than a calendar day, though in the beginning he had been sure the hours in the mine were less than last time - or at least that's what it had felt like.

As for how many days, it was certainly several. Weeks definitely. Months maybe. Sometimes it felt like years even. And the scary thing was... it could have been.

The only points of reference they had for the passage of time was when something significant happened. The weekly bath. Yes... that probably was once a week. Though the length of the week itself? It might have been seven days. Maybe. Seven days was stretching him, most of the time he could only refer back two or three, four if something major happened.

This is what he was referring to now. Since that day he and Modo had both been taken, it had been four whole days since their youngest bro had looked them in the eyes. Four days since he had been close enough to touch, four days since he had been close enough to scent.

It didn't make any sense. He knew Modo had had a word with him, warned him that even a gentle interrogation after a session with the Pit Boss was unlikely to bear any good feelings, but they hadn't expected him to take it so literally.

_Perhaps he doesn't know how long until we can face him?_

No, no that wasn't it. The morning after they had tried everything to make a connection to the white-furred mouse. Connections were important. Eye contact was the only thing they shared some days, for actual  _physical_  contact between them was in theory banned – though they did try to sneak in a few subversive brushes with the tips of their tails when they were sure no one was watching.

They always tried to stay at least within tail reach, if possible. Sometimes they managed to get closer. Occasionally, like when Modo had had his words, they came close enough to whisper in each other's ears. This was risky, if they were caught doing it the punishment would no doubt be terrible. But it was the only thing keeping them going, and this lack of interaction with the young mouse was deeply worrying for his two older bros.

Throttle could understand Vinnie wanting to keep out of scent range from him, at least for a while. At least until after bath day. As that day had not yet come around again, he wasn't too worried about the distance between the two of them. The only reason Modo didn't shy away was because, in a way, he was a part of it. Or else he was just too darn nice to let him see the disgust on his face when he caught the smell on his lips.

But the gentle giant was having no luck with Vinnie either. Modo didn't reek of their captor's fluids, yet even so the white mouse was avoiding him as well.

 _Perhaps he is angry with us for leaving him. Could that be it_?

If that were why then they should be annoyed with him, for it wasn't their fault they had both been taken that day. He wouldn't be that selfish, he thought, there must be some other reason. But what?

Throttle sighed inwardly. He had been observing his friend as closely as he could today, but the vast gulf of space between them (or so it felt) was making it very difficult for him to detect any physical clues as to his change in behaviour.

There was only one thing out of place, but there could be any number of reasons for it. He could smell another, a feint odour of someone just lingering on the unwashed fur of his friend. But he couldn't be sure, he needed to get close to confirm it. And Vinnie was making that damn near impossible.

It was the end of another shift and their harnesses were being stripped from them. It was a relief; they all hated the way the straps dug into their flesh, especially seeing as they were nearly always pulled tighter over any open wounds. By now all of them had plenty of those, and it was something short of a miracle they weren't infected from all the dirt they were living in. Throttle shrugged off his own leather bindings and stepped away, heading towards the line that would lead them back to the prison. He was hoping to catch up with Vinnie, who was already in the queue ahead, and try to get close enough to figure out what it was he had detected.

The white mouse must have sensed his intentions though, because he quickly slotted himself between some of the other slaves. Throttle knew he could not simply push in, and soon gave up his pursuit for the day.

_He can't hide from me forever. I have to know what's going on with him._

He glanced at Modo. The bigger Martian had apparently had the same idea as he, but had made it no further before their bro had sabotaged them once again.

_Damn it Vinnie, you don't want to be alone down here. You need us, and we need you. Don't push us away._

The procession continued on its snaking path, and as they had almost reached the yard they figured that today they would be lucky. The Pit Boss had no desire to educate them this evening.

But they were taken aback by the figure lingering at their cages. The welder was leant back against Vinnie's pen, his arms folded across his bony chest. From the look on his face they could tell that not only was he impatient to be somewhere else, or doing something else, but that there was something he had resigned himself to. A task had been set for him, and it couldn't be anything good as far as they were concerned.

As they approached they could see the three chain-link leashes he was holding. He was taking them somewhere, probably to his metal shop, and there were two guards approaching him to accompany the transfer.

"It's about time, how long does it take to get them back here anyway? I've been waiting for over half an hour!" A tone of exasperation was in the man's voice, something which one of the mice was now quite familiar with. Clearly Wes didn't take his position in the hierarchy too seriously, or else he enjoyed pushing boundaries. Fortunately for him the guards shared his sentiments.

"I know, bloody slaves I swear they drag their heels on purpose. I keep saying a night spent out in the mine would make them pick up the pace."

The second guard chuckled along with the first at the thought. They both seemed to wish for more powers to abuse their charges, and were more than happy to see the welder take the three mice for that purpose. They knew that the lathe-like man was quite capable of carrying out some of the more grisly orders the Pit Boss issued to be performed on his slaves.

The two guards grabbed hold of the larger mice, leaving Vinnie in the clutches of the metal worker. The three men led them out of the yard and to the door of the workshop, where they were all deposited before the guards left to return to their other duties.

"Be seeing you Wes. Hope you get to have some fun tonight."

"Yeah... no doubt I will. Later."

After the guards had left, the three mice clearly heard the snort of contempt and the derogatory remark muttered under his breath.  _You wish. I got work to do, only scum like you get to have any fun around here._

And with that out of his system he turned back to his abode and slammed the heavy wooden door behind him.

 _Finally, I thought he would never go._ Throttle gave a nod to his grey-furred friend, and the two of them practically pounced on the younger mouse sandwiched between them. He was chained up, as were they, so there was nowhere he could go, and no way he could hide from them.

The tan and grey muzzles were soon pressed deeply into the white fur between them, inhaling the clues they needed to assess the well-being of their comrade. There wasn't much to go on really, the usual traces of sweat, blood, dirt, and the remnants of his body contents that he had been pushed into one day.

Vinnie was growling at them, but they ignored it. They pressed closer still, moving their noses further down his body. At his back end they paused, but only for a moment. The white tail took care of that for them.

"Jeez bro, you nearly took my eye out, and Throttle's!"

"Yeah bro, what gives? We're only trying to see if you're ok, seeing as you won't tell us."

Their friend remained silent. Throttle could see his lips curling, and suddenly he felt very self conscious. No doubt his bro had just had a faceful of the awful stink wafting from his own soiled fur.

"Uh, sorry bro... but there's not much I can do about that." He could feel his cheeks reddening as he backed away from his friend's nose, but Modo was giving him a pained look and for some reason it comforted him. The poor gentle mouse had been forced to watch as he had been defiled, and had been absolutely helpless to prevent it.

There was still nothing from their friend. Modo continued to sniff him, processing the chemical information he was getting and translating it into something tangible. Finally he spoke.

"Vinnie..." his voice was low, and soft, and as he whispered he pressed himself closer to the trembling body beside him. "Vinnie I know something happened - something bad - and I know I said we wouldn't think any less of you for keeping it to yourself"

The grey mouse paused, and nuzzled the smaller face with his own. He realised the white snout was damp. Vinnie, it seemed, was struggling to deal with his own personal ordeal, whatever it had been.

"You don't have to tell us, but don't shut us out. Please don't shut us out bro, we're all you've got, and you're all we've got, and we love you. We don't want to lose you down here."

Now Modo was struggling. Both of them had wet faces. Throttle wanted to join in the embrace, but considering the condition he was in he didn't want to spoil it, or them. It was hard though. He desperately needed their touch right now, and this was the first time since it happened he had been close enough for that to be possible.

_If only we had been showered today. I need to touch them. I need them... oh god..._

Now he was struggling too. Modo's tail reached out to him and caressed his face, and the three of them looked mournfully at each other as they shared their individual despairs through their thoughts and expressions.

They hadn't even heard the door open. For a few minutes the man had stood there, watching the three fur-covered captives bond with each other. It was a touching sight, he thought, and a rare one. Slaves here didn't normally get close enough to anyone for this, but as these three were already friends all they needed was a moment of privacy.

He cleared his throat, and enjoyed watching the three of them startle as they realised they were not alone.

"Ahem, if you are quite done..." Wes raised an eyebrow, and the three faces resumed their fearful look of resignation.  _Good job it was me who saw you boys, if it had been anyone else you would be split up so far and so fast you wouldn't even get to say good bye._

He took each of them by their leashes and into his place of work, and like before attached them to the far wall. All the mice waited anxiously for the man to do something else to them. The list of possibilities was long after all.

Only Vinnie thought any different. He was eyeing the man as if he were a bomb on a timer, waiting for him to do something else to make him question his mysterious role in this place.

"Now then... Pit Boss has given me quite a while to work on you three, seeing as the fat pig has some sort of feast arranged for him and his army of gormless gluttons." He sneered at this statement. Even if he had been invited he wouldn't have gone, nothing sickened him more than to see so much food go to waste when half the population here was starving to death.

Wes picked up his measuring tape. He needed an updated set of biometrics for the three rodents before he could make the latest set of restraints his boss required, and they all had lost a considerable amount of weight since they had first arrived here.

He went to Modo first. Pencil in mouth, notebook in pocket. After a while he straightened up, having collected all the data he would need. No part of that furred body had escaped his attentions. Distances between tail and knee, testicles and pecs, snout and ears. Everything. And whilst he had worked he had also jotted down several other pieces of information. The list of wounds, old and new, that he had found on this one mouse alone took up nearly three pages of his little book.

He then moved to the tan mouse. Throttle had been watching the man take his notes, and decided that, at least for now, no real harm was coming. He allowed himself to be measured without any sign he might resist. In fact he was quite bemused by some of the places that tape measure had been placed.

_I wonder why he needs to know the width of my nose. What could they possibly do with that information?_

Again the notebook was also detailed with the various injuries he recorded on the tan body. He also made one additional note:  _Stinks of piss_.

Wes straightened up once more, and glanced down at the second mouse, trying to decide if it was worth doing something about that latter point. He certainly had the time, no one was likely to bother disturbing him tonight.

_Hmm... it might be worth it. Might be therapy. For me too._

But he had one more mouse to measure up, and he bent down over the last of the bros to perform his duties. Vinnie was looking at him strangely, and as Wes pulled back he caught the silent appeal showing on his face.

The welder stared into his eyes, realising just how rich the pink of his irises were, and just how expressive and deep those windows into his inner-self appeared.

He didn't know why, but he felt he had to. He pocketed his scruffy little pad of paper, and ran his two, work-worn hands over the grubby-white hairs of the mouse.

_He's in a lot of pain, but he's hiding it well._

And it wasn't just the obvious trenches in his pelt that cause the smaller mouse to shudder. Wes brushed back some fur and noted the deep purple of the skin below. A huge contusion above his shoulder. Amongst many, many others.

_If I didn't know any better i'd say someone beat the crap outta him, and it wasn't whilst he was working._

He moved his inspection further down the mouse's back. The moment his fingers even brushed the base of the tail it clamped down hard, and the man peered round to see it had been pulled tight between his legs, and then wound tighter still around his right thigh.

_Right... gotcha..._

Throttle and Modo had been watching the whole time the man explored their bro's body. They hadn't tried to stop him, because they sensed that Wes was quite likely to find out the cause of the reclusive behaviour their friend was displaying. What they just saw brought them to the same conclusion as the welder.

_Oh man, really? But why... and by who?_

Wes had disappeared through a swing door at the back of the shop, and it was quite a while until he returned. He was surprised to see that none of the mice had moved in his absence. He had been expecting to find the three resuming their embraces, but instead they were exactly where he had left them. Eyes down, tails down, mouths down. The image of pure misery.

"Don't worry boys, I got something to sort you right out." He bent down to take the chain connected to Vinnie's neck. "If any of you give me any trouble, though, i'm warning you, I won't hesitate to deal with you myself, and then I will have the Pit Boss informed. You don't want that now do you?"

Three heads shook. Modo and Throttle were stunned by the duality of this man's personality. Vinnie was less surprised at that. He was more struck by how much a slave could sound like their master.

Once behind the door, the white mouse saw what the welder had in planned for him, for all of them. This room was almost like a sitting room, though not really a comfortable one. There were a few wooden stools, and one very tattered looking arm chair, but not much else. The forge connected to a boiler and a stove, and these warmed the back room quite effectively. It was nice to be out of the cold for a change that was for sure. In front of the stove was a large, metal tub, and in that tub was water. Hot water. And foam. Not much, but enough to tell the mouse there was something else besides water in that bath.

He was led next to the bath, parallel to it, and then the man went over to its other side.

"Right, in we go then."

Before Vinnie could react those two rough hands had grabbed him from the other side of the tub, and pulled him bodily into the water. For a moment his head was submerged, but he was quickly pulled upward enough for his face to be free off the soapy water. The rest of his body remained in the hot liquid.

A rough towel worked over his snout and eyes, allowing him to see and breathe once more. After that the hands busied themselves with massaging his fur, kneading out a week's worth of dirt and blood, washing away the remnants of other fluids that clung to him. It hurt, sure, but it still felt really good. Vinnie had a hard time keeping the soft moans from slipping out of his mouth.

When he was finished, Wes hauled the mouse to his feet, leaving him standing in the warm bath.

"Right... now that's done let's deal with the other thing, shall we?"

Vinnie detected the softening of his voice, and was trying desperately to understand how this person could turn from abuser to carer in a matter of minutes.

Then again, when he saw what was coming next he almost changed his mind.

The man was carrying what looked like a hot water-bottle with a long tube dangling from the screw-topped end. The tube had something on it, a sort of switch. It reminded the mouse of the drip he had had in his arm when he had been in a coma.

"Just relax, mouse, this will all be over with soon."

Reassuring words maybe, but he didn't feel any better. He was being hauled bodily out the bath and onto a towel, and a large black bucket was being sited behind him. Right behind him.

 _Holy crap what the heck is he... oh jeez... that... great... like it couldn't get any worse down here_.

Wes had taken a firm hold of his tail in one hand, pulling against the resistance the mouse was trying to give, and with the other inserted the long tubing deep inside his anus. He threaded it in deeper, and deeper, until he could feel the mouse squirm in his grip. Then he let go of the tail and turned his attention to the rubber bottle filled with fluid, and to the tap controlling the flow from it and through the connecting tube.

"Just hold still, and hold it all in. No matter how much you want to let go, don't. Not until I say so. Get it?"

Vinnie gulped, but nodded. He could feel the pressure building, and the cramps. It was like the worst kind of stomach ache he had ever had. It was worse than the time he had eaten that week old hot dog, or the time he got food poisoning from the raw chicken... Charley hadn't warned him the dangers of uncooked meat here on Earth.

_Oh man... I really need to... ungh, if he doesn't let me soon I won't be able to stop it._

He had just reached the point where he thought he might burst when the man's voice released him from his discomfort. The tube slipped out, and a few seconds later the black bucket was sloshing with a mix of the enema, wastes, blood... and the other remnants from the forced intrusion he had been made to endure four nights earlier.

"Feel better?"

 _Better? I don't know about that, I feel like I just turned inside out._ Vinnie couldn't quite comprehend why or how such a treatment would help him, but clearly the man thought it would.

"You will do, even if you don't think it now." Wes grabbed another towel, and rubbed him over. Like with the washing the action still hurt, for he had many bruises, but the sensation was still... _marvellous_. He never thought he would take so much pleasure in having a towel caress his skin, even a rough one like this. He was almost disappointed when he was done and being led back to the workshop's front room.

Throttle and Modo had heard the strange, one-sided conversation issuing from behind the door, and the sound of sloshing water. Seeing Vinnie returned to them with damp, antiseptic smelling fur only confirmed it. The man had given him a bath. A cleanse. A thorough cleaning, inside and out if they had guessed correctly.

Wes took the grey mouse next, but didn't bother to change the water in the tub. Hot water was a limited resource, and of the three the white mouse had been the cleanest so he had got to go first. This one was a little grubbier, but the other... well it was only fair that he went last.

Modo allowed himself to be man-handled into the bath and have himself scrubbed down by the welder's hands. He didn't make a sound when he was hauled out and the towel passed over him. He too enjoyed the sensation, but he still kept quiet. He never took anything for granted, and even the simplest, tiniest noise of pleasure might cut this session abruptly short.

Finally Throttle was taken to be cleaned. Of the three he was the most thankful of it, and he didn't mind at all he was being washed with already quite dirty water. He wouldn't wish the stuff leaching from his fur to ever have to touch the skins of either of his friends.

"I bet you have been wishing for this moment all week.  Can't say I blame you, I used to feel the same."

Throttle pricked up his ears, astonished by this unexpected admission.

_They pissed on him too... does that mean... was he a slave?_

Like his bro he was having a hard time connecting the hard-hearted actions of this man to someone who could have been at the receiving end of such brutality. But then again, he couldn't imagine any of the other guards or goons taking him and his bros for a nice, hot bath either.

The man took his time over Throttle, and even squeezed an extra blob of the antiseptic soap onto his hands so that he could work the ingrained dirt out from the sodden fur. By the time he had finished the tan mouse's coat looked almost the right colour again, and the vile stench had all but washed away.

Wes took a fresh towel to rub him down. Even though he had been shaved, the mouse's fur had already grown back to full thickness, and it had absorbed a lot of water from the tub. The soap had taken away the hair's natural oils, allowing the follicles to act like a sponge, but it wouldn't be long before the waterproofing returned.

He lingered on the tan-furred head for a while, staring into the once-bright ruby eyes before him. There was something different about this one, he thought, and not just the shade of red delicately painting his irises.

_By the way he looks at me i'd say he couldn't see that well without those glasses. But he must be managing ok._

As there was nothing he could do about the poor visual acuity of his charge, he led him back to the workshop and chained him up by the others. The warmth of his building was helping them to dry out quite quickly, and clearly they were grateful not just for the wash but for not being forced to freeze half to death outside afterwards.

"I still got things to do, but i'm still authorised to have you for another hour. I suggest you make good use of that time."

The man gave them a long, meaningful stare before he returned to his forge, and the three mice were left staring back at him in confusion.

Realising he really was giving them permission to interact, Throttle shook his head (there was still water in his ears) and turned to face his nearest bro, Modo. He gave the grey mouse a small smile, and then began nuzzling his face with his snout.

After a few seconds Modo also cottoned onto what Wes had just said, and returned the caress, sniffing hard at his bro's cleaned fur as he did so. Another minute later he turned to Vinnie, stepping back to make space for him to move closer, and then leant forward and licked him on the nose.

Wes was absorbed in his work; he hammered out another set of shackles as his boss had requested, ticking yet another thing of his endless list. He had just set the iron down to cool when he looked up, his eyes falling on the far end of the room.

He had a hard time keeping the grin from spreading across his face. The mice had resumed their bonding, and all three were pressed as close as they could to each other, nuzzling and licking and nibbling each other's fur, grooming each other's damp coats whilst sharing the comfort of the feel of another's warmth. Once again the welder felt truly touched.

He sighed and moved onto his next item, and the next, all small oddities – buckles, rings, single links for chains, locks. Many of them just repairs. When he looked up again he realised that their time was up, though he dearly wished they had a few more minutes. The three mice were practically curled up in a ball of fluff, the warmth of his workplace having lulled them into a doze, the safety and security of his home allowing them a moment to relax.

The sound of his voice brought the precious moment together to a sudden end.

"Sorry boys, you got to get up now - don't want the guards catching you like this."

His eyes darted to the small window near the door. It may have just been paranoia, but even he was not so foolish as to think he might not be checked up on from time to time. It was this fear that kept him from making his escape in the first place.

_Hmm, they should be coming any minute.  Better get a move on._

Striding over to the mice with a determined look on his face, he hauled each of them roughly to their feet. They had been struggling to right themselves anyway, so it was a good thing he took action. It was only moments later that the knock came to his door, and it opened without him having even responded.

"Good night then Wes?"

It was the same pair from before. Thank goodness.

"Yeah, they gave me no trouble. Got what I needed anyway."

"No trouble..? Pity. Boss is waiting for that one to make a move. We all are."

The second guard was pointing at Vinnie, who cringed back behind his friends.

"Not this time. I'm sure it won't be long." Wes had always assumed the white mouse would act up sooner or later, but so far he had been keeping his head down. That he had received rough treatment outside of the mine, and outside of the Pit Boss's chambers, suggested to him that one of the guards must have taken a few liberties. And he had a fair idea of who that was.

Back in their cages that night, and with their stomachs lined once again (mercifully they had still been left their evening meal despite their absence), the three mice had lain down to sleep decidedly more comfortable than in previous nights. Modo was out almost immediately, and his gentle snores issued softly towards the ears of the other mice. He was exhausted. As the biggest of them he was always given the heaviest loads to pull.

It was a while longer until Vinnie drifted off. The tan mouse noted he was not in his usual, crouched position, but stretched out on his side as he and Modo normally did. This was very telling, and in fact he realised that he had slept like this for the last four nights.

_Poor kid.  He must have had a rough time that night._

Though the white mouse was on his side, he still had his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Even in sleep he still felt he had to protect himself.

Throttle lay awake for quite some time, as tired as he was. There were so many thoughts bothering him. The things the Pit Boss had had done to him. The things his older bro had had to watch. The things that had happened to his younger friend that night. The unexpected revelation about Wes's history.

Like Vinnie, he wondered if the man had been a slave like them and then somehow bought his way out of the mine, or if he had never really worked in the mine at all. The Pit Boss must have recognised early on the usefulness of having a full-time metal worker in his employment.

The tan mouse dearly wished he knew more. But even if he did he would probably forget it. His wits were dulled and his head ached most days, for despite their water dishes in the cages, they spent most of the time without fluids and sweated the valuable resource from their bodies as they laboured. The lack of sunlight was also taking its toll. And the wounds. Repeatedly being whipped did not help him at all. His body was already struggling with the lack of food, but having to constantly make repairs as well - the raw materials he needed simply weren't available in any great abundance.

He closed his eyes and tried to count the days they had been here. It was no use. All he could go back to was the day he and Modo had been taken out of line, and returned later that night none the wiser as to their friend's suffering. Whilst Modo was unharmed, physically, he had simply lain down and cried himself to sleep that night, whilst he himself had spent several hours with his face pressed through his cage bars, emptying the acidic remains of his tiny breakfast onto the dirt outside.

It hadn't occurred to either of them that Vinnie had been abused in their absence. And now Throttle desperately wished that he had taken the opportunity in the warm building to see into his bro's mind, and force him to show them both what had happened. He had a fair idea though, and there was no way really he would be so cruel as to make him relive it just for their own curiosity.

What chilled him more, though, was the comment of that guard.

_Boss is waiting for that one to make a move._

It occurred to him that Vinnie had not yet been taken to be 'educated' by the Pit Boss, and now he knew why. Their monstrous master knew the third mouse was strong willed, and was biding his time until he finally cracked and did something stupid. When that happened, which it would eventually, no doubt the man had something planned that would result in a horrific punishment for the mouse, and put an end to the wild, boisterous character that defined him once and for all.


	12. Nothing left but hope

It had taken Charley a long time to decide she could trust him. With everything that had happened to him now, he had no reason to lie. Heck he had nothing left to lose except his life, and he seemed to have come to realise that if these were indeed his last few days, she was the only person left in the world who would give half a damn about it. About him.

After describing the gory details of his abuse to her, he had later gone on and divulged what he had done to try and get himself released. For several days she had chewed this information over, finding it hard to bring herself away from the disgust she felt at his selfishness, and back to where she had been when she had first placed her hands on him.

He had admitted to her he had offered to do some pretty awful things if he had been given one last chance. Aside from the usual promises of destroying Chicago, the Earth, the mice, Mars, or whatever he assumed his superior wanted out the way the most, he had also offered to go back as a spy, a prostitute (though how he would manage that she didn't know - and neither had he – he just thought it sounded dramatic), an ambassador (to trick Earth officials into thinking they were friendly), and even as a suicide bomber.

The thing that really stuck in her throat, though, was the admission of offering to gain the Earth woman's confidence, and to try to get her to spill her knowledge of their enemies' capabilities somehow.

Considering the difficulty she had had in even bringing herself to talk to the bad-smelling fish in the first place, this last thing had really made her re-evaluate her willingness to continue the dialogue between them.

_But if he really wanted to lure me into a false sense of security, why would he admit to it - or is that part of the ruse too?_

But what really, really troubled her was the response his tormentors had had to that last offer. Limburger told her he thought he was onto a winner when they seemed genuinely taken by that suggestion:

" _You're sure you could get extract this kind of intel from her? From what we have seen she doesn't exactly think very highly of you. What makes you think she will ever trust a worthless liar like you?"_

Yes, the feckless fish had relayed even the verbal rebuke he had received, which made her consider the validity of his confession all the more. The Plutarkians were clearly after what she knew, which tallied well with the visions she had been having of her mysterious excursions. If for some reason her drugged self was not performing how they wanted, say she wasn't giving them useful information about potential hostile targets (not that she really had that kind of intel), or technical specs of weapons she had made for the mice to use, then perhaps Limburger's offer had seemed worth considering after all.

Clearly they must have changed their minds. The day he had been taken for his ultimate lesson in humiliation, she had been busy helping to blow up somewhere, the place known only to her as 'target twelve'. And since that day she had heard similar 'targets' be mentioned by the digitised voices, although there had not been any more attacks from what she was aware of. No, she must have already given them something useful for them to finally turn on the fish and reject his pleas for forgiveness.

_It looks almost like he has given up. He must think this thing is going kill him._

By the way he had described it, Limburger had made it sound like the birthing almost certainly would be the end of his life. Or maybe he just wished it was. Charley wasn't sure.

Eventually, with all the honesty pouring out of the fish's heart and soul, the woman had decided it wasn't worth just cutting him loose. Even if he did turn out to be a complete fraud (and with that in mind she was still very careful with what she herself divulged), she still needed someone to keep her sane in here. The guards nearly never spoke, she never had any visitors, and the alien who experimented on her was almost certainly mute. Limburger's voice was the only form of entertainment, the focus of her reality... the only reference point she could turn to when the drugs distorted all her senses and left her numb and disorientated.

He continued to be there for her when she woke, and she continued to offer him some soothing words at times when he was in the most discomfort. They hadn't come for him again, no doubt because the torture would harm the developing eggs inside him, but the pressure in his abdomen was a torment all its own. Most of the time he lay on his cot cradling his swelling stomach, groaning from time to time as his abdomen spasmed, crying out louder when he had to move himself to tend to his body's needs.

She spent more time by his bedside than on her own bunk nursing her nightmarish headache. This evening was no exception. It was nearing two weeks since he had been implanted, and she was toying with broaching the dreaded question. She was kneeling beside him, squeezing his gloved hand. He was in a lot of pain today, but the hard grip they had between them wasn't just for his benefit. She was barely functioning herself with the agony residing in her skull.

"Hey, it's ok, just breathe. Take slow, deep breaths, it'll pass I promise."

The woman was trying to think of what her mother had said to her when she was younger, and when she had experienced the first cramps in her belly when she had hit puberty. This was the closest comparison she could think of to what the fish must be going through. Not that this was of any use, her head was so fuzzy she couldn't remember much, other than something to do with hot water bottles and lots and lots of pain killers - both of which were in short supply here.

With every spasm he would groan and grasp her tighter, but eventually her prediction came true. The pain lessened and he was able to sit up again. Now was the moment to ask.

"Umm... it's been nearly two weeks hasn't it?  Can you... can you tell yet?

"Yes... two weeks..." Limburger breathed heavily as he paused, the cramps had taken a lot out of him this time.

"Is it... are you... umm...?"

He was nodding, which didn't really answer her question, but the line of fluid streaming down his rubber cheek told her what she needed to know. He was carrying spawner eggs.

"How much bigger will you get?"

For a few minutes he sat there in silence, aside from the rasping in his throat, but eventually he made a gesture with his arms. She knew it was only a guess, but it was a scary one.

"Jeez... I... I don't know what to say. Sorry?"

"Not your fault, only my own." He swallowed hard. He knew he deserved everything he was getting, and everything that was still to come. "Please... if there's a way... don't... don't let..."

He couldn't say it, but she understood. She nodded. She knew she wasn't entirely blameless in his current predicament, not that anyone else would really see it that way.

_It'll be better for everyone; if that's what he wants I won't deny him it._

It was now she decided it was only fair to let on at what she knew, or at least just a little. If he was in so much despair he was asking her to put him out of his misery, then perhaps a little exchange of knowledge wouldn't hurt.

_You never know, maybe he will know what's going on after all... maybe he can do something good before he dies._

"Uh, just so you know, you were right, kind of..."

Limburger raised an eyebrow at her, unsure of what exactly she was referring to.

"I mean about strip poker."  _Damn it how can I say anything without putting myself in danger_. "You would win. You do have more layers."

He was considering her words carefully. Even though he felt like crap he knew what she really meant, and he recognised her attempt to keep the message cryptic.

"But you have more aces in your deck."  _Yes she is clever, she will understand_.

"A royal flush, but the cards are worn."

"Worn?"

"Yeah.  Can't see if they're kings or queens, the deck's old."

_Ok... she's seen people, but can't tell who they are._

"Can you see the suit? Hearts or Spades?"

"Spades, I think. Or clubs. Definitely not hearts or diamonds." The effort of assigning the nature of her visions to a pack of cards was testing her to the limits, but so far she was keeping up. She was assuming he was referring to which side she thought the people were on.

"I see, and who is the dealer?"

_If she thinks she's seeing Plutarkian activity, then maybe she's seen who is in charge._

"Uh I think it's me."

This took him aback, as it had done her. She had mulled over her distorted memories a thousand times, but each led to the same conclusion.  _She had ordered target twelve destroyed_. She had heard no one else give the reply to that voice on the radio, even though all the other voices were muffled she still knew they came from other people. But at that point, there had been no others. It must have been her.  Somehow.

"And my mask counts?"

"If it's the last thing you remove then yes, I guess it does."

There was no way the silent guard in the corridor would have any idea what they were talking about. They must have referred to human parlour games more times than they did to food, so this exchange, whilst halting, would not seem noteworthy to anyone listening. Only the two of them knew they had gone beyond accusing each other of cheating.

Charley felt a little better she had come clean with her neighbour. Whilst she hadn't exactly said much, she felt certain she had conveyed something important in her words. If he had understood her correctly, she had just told him she remembered more than just the lab and the alien, that she had seen people whom she assumed were working for the Plutarkians, and that she was sure she had a central role in what she was seeing.

She didn't quite know what to make of the mask comment; perhaps Limburger was asking if she believed him, what he had said, or maybe he was getting her to confirm again that she would help to end his life. Maybe it was a tiny glint of hope for him. Maybe he had gotten what he needed to secure his release after all.

Her brain was hurting from their game, so she returned to her bunk. Dinner would be arriving soon, and despite the grossness of it she knew she would consume it as if it were nothing worse than chocolate. And so would her neighbour. Since he was now feeding several hundred growing fish, his portions had increased in size considerably. Every day his dishes got a little larger, and now he was being given more than triple what she was. It didn't seem to make a difference to his size though. His belly was growing, sure, but his arms, legs and face were still shrinking. He was providing all the nourishment he reaped from his food to his boss's progeny, and taking virtually nothing for himself, except what he needed to stay alive.

Limburger had explained this too. They didn't have a placenta, like mammals, but the brooding chamber would flood with the nutrients the eggs needed, and these would be absorbed through the egg's membranes and into the bodies of the developing embryos. By the time they were ready to hatch, he would be eating practically his own body weight in food each day just for this purpose.

The guard was outside with their meals. Charley sat herself up to get a good look at the tray she was being delivered. Each time it came she hoped to see something other than bugs, but the best she could hope for was a sort of jelly-like substance, which vaguely reminded her of seaweed. Raw seaweed. But today it was worms again, apparently this being the staple of the inhabitants of this planet.

As she clambered to the hatch to receive her food, she noticed small trolley in the hallway. As theirs were the last cells in this block, the stack of plates laden with slimy creatures must have all been for Limburger.

Despite months of having been half-starved, the sight of so much food did not make the fish jump for joy. Though the growling in his stomach would be dampened for another night, none of what he ate would make him feel any better beyond that initial relief. In fact, with the size of his belly now, any added pressure inside him was distinctly unwelcome.

The woman watched him pick at his food, and she could see he was struggling. Torn between the ingrained instinct to survive, and the desperate urge to find a way to end this torment prematurely. It was plain he was considering the latter. If he didn't eat, the embryos wouldn't grow. Whether or not he could starve them long enough to kill them before he expired was another matter. There was no simple way out of this it seemed.

"You should eat, there's no point hurting yourself now. They will only force you if you don't and you know it."

Charley was right, but it didn't make it any easier. The mountain of dishes he was required to consume at only two weeks was enough to make any Plutarkian baulk (except perhaps the Loogey Brothers; they would have no trouble at all in polishing this meal off), which made him wonder how he would manage at due date.

_They have ways, probably liquidise it and tube it straight in._

He sighed and picked up his first dish. It was going to take him a while to get through this lot.

The woman had finished her own food in record time. She was so hungry nowadays it didn't matter what they gave her, she shovelled it down before she could taste it, and then prayed hard it stayed down. Watching her cell mate taking his time made this much more difficult.

"Urgh, I don't know how you can stand such things. Give me a pizza any day."

"Not hot dogs?" If he was going to have to stay up for the next few hours, he might as well make conversation.

"Hell no, you think after three years of watching them mice eat nothing but, that they'd be the first thing I ordered if given the chance?"

"You don't like them?"  _I'd rather have a hot dog right now than all this_.

"Sure I do. Just not for breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper, snacks..."

"I get the jist."

The small talk went on for ages. Charley desperately wanted to sleep, but she could tell the fish didn't want to face his monstrous meal on his own. She stayed awake for as long as she could, but by the time he reached his last plate she was on her bunk, barely able to give him one word answers in response.

The guard cleared away the dishes and Limburger groaned as he hauled his enormous body down onto his bed. He glanced over at the Earth woman, and smiled sadly. She had finally drifted off as he chewed his last mouthful, and now she looked quite at peace where she lay. He knew she would sleep right through tonight, her exhaustion trumping any nightmares that might try to come and disturb her. He on the other hand... if he could block the pain out long enough to actually fall asleep it would be a miracle, and it was very likely he would be awake when the guards came to take her away in the morning.

He mused over the conversation they had had earlier, the one vaguely resembling a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. He knew she was trying to settle the score, to give him something in return for his own admissions. He also knew that even if she had been free to say everything unencoded that she probably would still have withheld important details. As it was she had taken a huge risk in telling him what she had. If he had the chance to speak again to the warden, or to the high chairman, he could quite easily use her to try once again in a bid for freedom. Though his chances would be much better if she had given him more.

Whether or not he would revert to his selfish baseline he didn't know. It was tempting, because he really had nothing to lose. But then again...

 _If those mice ever show up and she finds out I betrayed her_...

A small gain that he might get for giving his boss her secrets, trading their strange alliance for something resembling freedom. He would still have to give birth, there was no going back from that, the high chairman would not allow an abortion. Though he might be given a reprieve from being implanted again. But then what? Back to Earth, back to fighting those mice, back to failing, then back to prison again no doubt. No. If he was ever to be free of this place he either had to die, escape, or offer the human woman and her furry friends on a platter to his superiors. And then he would have to live with himself and his most distasteful act of treachery in his entire lie-filled life. He wasn't even sure if he was that kind of person anymore. The woman  _had_  changed him. Maybe there was hope after all.


	13. Fall from grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains some violence and abuse.

It took him a while to realise it, but after several sessions watching the Pit Boss abuse his bro it became obvious that the man had him figured out from the start. In private 'lessons' the aim was to teach him that his physical strength meant nothing down here, and so he was regularly subjected to acts of violence that were meant purely to weaken him. And then there were the other tricks he was required to perform for his master, which were more for entertainment than anything.

But those sessions with Throttle... they weren't all about putting the tan mouse in his place. The Pit Boss had the largest Martian pegged right from the beginning that he saw himself as his friend's guardian, and forcing him to watch helplessly as the smaller mouse was tortured was all part of the foul man's ploy to wear him down. Evidently having seen his reaction during the shaving, it didn't take a genius to connect this behaviour back to the last day they had them in the Pits. Modo had finally broken when he accepted he could not protect his friend from harm.

It was also quite clear what angle the man was coming from in his treatment of the tan-furred Martian. Everything that was done suggested that he must have known Throttle was in some sort of position of leadership amongst his own kind. He had been given some of the most degrading, most humiliating tasks to perform, and it truly sickened the gentle grey mouse.

Seeing the transformation from brave and heroic leader, admired and respected by his kindred, to this lowly, terrified being incapable of anything but submission, was so very terrible, and yet so very spectacular.

And today's lesson had to be one of the worst so far - for both of them.

Modo had been taken before he had even finished his shift. The guards were talking amongst themselves as they collected him, almost as if he didn't exist, and their uncensored conversation carried the ominous forewarning that the _'Pit Boss is bored'_.

Oh great, he had thought, after necessity then boredom surely was the greatest of inventors. He may not have been the most intelligent of mice, but Modo knew this session was going to be rough just from that snippet of gossip he had been privy to. As it had been a while since only he had been taken, he was sure the Pit Boss would be quite anxious to make up for it, and was likely to be particularly vindictive with his 'education' this time round.

It started how it nearly always did now. Once in the arena-like chamber he was chained to the loop in front of the granite throne. A goon would be signalled, and someone would step forward with the electric clippers, and re-shave the patch of fur on his left thigh to once again expose the branding scar (as their fur grew back quite quickly this became something of a ritual for both Modo and Throttle). After that the Pit Boss would approach the waiting mouse, and run his hands over his body in the most intimate of inspections. He never missed an opportunity to try to uncover the organ retracted deep inside Modo's abdomen.

As always he was out of luck. In his frustration sometimes he would have the mouse turned onto his back, and would spend a further half hour trying to tease the pink flesh from its sheath. But nothing would entice the grey mouse to reveal himself, not normally anyway.

Today was different.

The Pit Boss snapped, and bellowed in annoyance at his captive's lack of cooperation.  "I swear it mouse, if you don't do as I wish I will have no hesitation in digging the penis out of your pathetic leader's body, and I assure you I will use the bluntest, dirtiest blade in the entire Pits, and no amount of medicine will stop the infection that follows!"  

The cruel crone had decided, for simplicity, to simply call this new underground territory after his old domain. And as the lord of this empire, he really did live up to his title. The threat he gave the mild-mannered mouse was so dreadful, and so very likely to be followed up, Modo finally gave him what he wanted. It made him want to die right there with the shame he now felt.

The feeling was even more pronounced when almost everyone in the room came over for a closer look. He felt truly repulsed at the amount of hands reaching down for him, although the Pit Boss only allowed a certain few to actually make contact.

_Anyone would think they had never seen one before. Are all human males this perverted?_

Of course they weren't and he knew it, but like the Plutarkian man locked up in his own prison billions of miles away, he too observed how reserved the human species was compared to other sentients. In his experience, this kind of societal prudishness usually resulted in quite the opposite amongst the individual members. Like down here, it seemed, where the weakest were amongst those who weren't allowed to treasure their inhibitions. And the strongest took full advantage of their vulnerability.

The prone mouse moaned as they played with him, but not through pleasure. Hands this vile would never make him enjoy what they were doing.

_I have to wonder - if i'm supposed to be an animal - do humans do this on a regular basis to other species on Earth?_

Modo had no idea. He had seen people walking their dogs around Charley's neighbourhood, and seen the odd cat wandering around in the alleyways, but he hadn't ever really considered what humans actually did with their pets. Farm animals he had a fair idea though. He could only assume the Pit Boss envisaged him as something more like a cow or horse, a working animal, rather than some sort of lap dog.

The men were curious, as was their chief, but soon resumed their positions around the arena. The Pit Boss, however, was still scrutinising the pink flesh lying limply between the mouse's legs. Even he knew he couldn't force the mouse to respond further than what he had already.

"Get up, rat, you've had your chance – it's my turn now."

Knowing what was coming next did not make Modo feel any more relieved that they had finished fondling him.

Ten minutes later, however, the grey mouse was wishing he was still on his back. The stench alone made his stomach heave, but having the man inside his mouth practically choking him was just about more than he could handle. The moment he was given the chance to breathe he coughed up everything he had just been made to swallow, followed by the remnants of his morning meal. It was really, really bad luck he hadn't been free to turn his head.

"You filthy, disgusting animal!" The Pit Boss roared, shoving the green-faced Martian roughly away. With the vomit adding to his already fetid odour, it was no wonder the repellent man was fuming.

Modo found himself sprawled on the floor, frantically trying to get to his feet, knowing he was in trouble and what that meant.

If their employer hadn't been in such a rage the watching goons would probably have been cheering with laughter. But even they knew when it was best to simply keep quiet. They watched in near silence as the mouse was hauled to his feet, and his back painted the colour of an autumn sunset.

By the time it was over, Modo was half collapsed at his master's booted feet. The electrified whip had not only cut him deeply, but had sent so much charge through his muscles he was exhausted from the hard spasms they had gone into with each and every lash.

But despite the pain, the humiliation, the revulsion, the mouse still refused to let the man see he was beaten. He didn't cry out, he didn't weep. He kept every terrible emotion he felt at that moment buried deep inside him. He sincerely hoped to be dragged back to his cage now, and left there to suffer his agonies in peace.

No such luck.

"Shift is due to end soon boss, you want me to get the other one for you now?"

Flint had joined the audience just as his employer was wiping his whip on his heavily-soiled trousers. He glanced down at the bloodied slave and smirked.  _Looks like I missed something really good.  But at least i'm free to see the real party get started._

"Oh yes, I think we're about ready for him now. Aren't we?" The balding brute aimed this last question down at his feet. Modo didn't know if he was actually expected to answer or not, and played it safe. He grunted, quietly.

After aiming another blow to the mouse's body, this time with a kick, the man gave one of his usual silent gestures. Two of the watching goons responded by having Modo dragged to his feet and re-chained to an iron loop fixed to onto the wall around ten feet from the throne. This was far enough away to keep the mouse from interfering, but close enough for him to see and hear everything.

The Pit Boss reclined himself back in his seat whilst he waited. He had been looking forward to this moment all afternoon.

It took nearly twenty minutes for Flint to return with the tan mouse, and it was a good thing he did not take any longer because his employer was getting decidedly fidgety.

"Sorry Boss, there was some... resistance... but we took care of it." He inclined his head towards two of his cronies that had accompanied the collection. Both were grinning, but were also slightly red in the face.

_Throttle must have put up a fight, which is strange. He wouldn't normally risk it._

He took in his bro's drooping posture, the fearful look in his eyes, the twitching of his cheeks. He noted the feint trace of his urine on his scent, and the dampness to his feet. There was no way a mouse this frightened, and this dejected, put up any kind of a fight. Flint must have been referring to something, or someone else.

_Vinnie? Did he do something?_

He hoped not. So far the white mouse had kept under the radar by not making any fuss over his friend's disappearances; and with what the guard had said about them waiting for him to do something... this was all the incentive he should surely need to keep out of trouble all the more.

Modo didn't have time to muse over this for long. The Pit Boss wanted his full attention, and if he didn't give it willingly he had ways of making him watch every terrible thing he planned to do. He didn't fancy having his head clamped again, once was enough to make him never try to hide his eyes from the ugliness he was required to observe.

Throttle had been chained where the grey mouse had been, right in front of the throne. He too was shaved again, but rather than be explored by the wandering hands of his owner, the mouse was bid to turn around and display the uncovered mark to everyone in the room.

The scar on both their thighs was a horrible sight. Large, purple, and shining like a gruesome beacon of their enslavement. The Pit Boss traced his fingers over his insignia lovingly, and enjoyed the shiver the touch sent through the mouse's body.

"Yes, my little rat boy, you are my slave... all mine... like you were back then, like you always will be..." He was almost hissing in the large, furred lobe, and his turbulent breath added further stimulus to the mouse's nervous shudder. "And here is the evidence to prove it, slave. You can try to hide it, but you will always know it is there."

His voice was crooning, taunting. He knew it cost the tan mouse a lot to be in this position. Serving someone. Being the lowest of the low, the bottom of the pack. No longer a leader, no longer a free man. No longer a person. Nothing more than a slave.

"Say it, rat, say it so everyone can hear. What are you?"

There were several possible answers to this question, and it all depended on which one he wanted today as to whether or not he was punished for saying the wrong one. Throttle decided on silence, not that it was the best option.

"Oh, a smart ass huh? Or maybe not." The Pit Boss started laughing. "Whaddya know boys, the rat's finally learned something. Animals don't talk!"

His guffaws were swelled by the raucous chuckles of his followers. It wouldn't have mattered what the mouse had said, really, anything would provide them with some entertainment.

Throttle clenched his jaw hard, briefly allowing himself to feel the humiliation that was intended, but also a trace of anger. Both emotions were well under control though, the constant fear of reprisal he felt more or less overrode anything else.

The Pit Boss suddenly cut short his mirth, and glared down at his captive with a terrifying gleam in his eyes. "Just a pity that's the wrong answer for today,  _rat_. Now then, let's try this again.  Tell me what you are.  _NOW_."

Throttle closed his eyes, praying that the next word he uttered wasn't his last.

"Slave..."

"What's that you say? I didn't hear you."

He practically choked as he repeated himself, and this wasn't even the worst of it.

"And who am I, slave? Who is it you stand before as a slave?"

The Pit Boss knew just how hard it was for the mouse to say this word. It was hard for the other, too, but more so for this one. This was an admission of his loss of control, a relinquishing of his former power... a resignation to his fate. It showed on his face as the word slipped from his trembling mouth.

"Master" he whispered, hating himself more and more every time he said it.

"Good boy, that wasn't so hard now was it?" The sarcasm was thinly veiled in that statement. "Now as I am your master and you are my slave, you do everything I tell you without question - isn't that right?"

The laughter had started again. The watching goons knew what was coming next.

Throttle nodded. He knew what was about to follow too.

At the side of the arena the grey mouse was watching all of this exchange with disdain. He had seen the same thing time and time again, the Pit Boss reminding his friend that he was nothing, and his friend resigning himself to that, a little part of him fading away each time he was made to repeat those awful words. The spark that had once made the tan mouse a brilliant, quick-witted strategist, a clever and decisive leader: it was long gone. There wasn't much left other than humility, and even that was deemed to be too dignified for this captive.

Dignity. What was that anyway? He must have forgotten, he thought, because nothing in their lives remotely held any of that mysterious quality anymore. Everything was purely about survival, and endurance. He didn't know how much more of that they had left either.

The large, kindly mouse was having a great deal of difficulty watching his comrade be denied any form of basic humanity. He clenched his fists tightly as the tan mouse had his head forced to the floor, and the little snout guided to their master's soiled footwear. His heart pounded with fury as his friend was made to clean the vomit he himself had regurgitated earlier, and when Throttle couldn't keep his own stomach contents down and was pushed face first into it, time and time again in a cycle of repulsion, Modo would have given anything to be able to open the chamber in his bionic arm and blast apart the vile villain with his laser cannon.

But he couldn't. He looked on in solemn sympathy as his bro's once beautiful, golden brown pelt was further dirtied, the entire room of gleeful observers having been invited to join in this part of the ritual. It was almost as if the men had all held themselves for this very moment. Throttle was practically swimming in the stuff by the time the last man had finished.

_Oh man that's just vile._

Now again he felt that feeling of loss. Seeing his friend standing there, soaked to the skin with the other men's wastes, was a far cry from the day he had been appointed head of their close-knit trio.

It was a small mercy the pit crew only ever emptied their bladders. He had heard rumours that at least one of the guards had a secret desire to go further, and he really hoped that that's all it was: a rumour.

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought the grey mouse back from his thoughts. The Pit Boss was having a great time tonight it seemed. He turned to his second in command, who himself had also just zipped up his denim fly.

"What do you think, Flint, has he had enough for today?"

The muscled thug considered his response for a moment. What they did to the mice was never enough for him.

"May I make a suggestion, boss?"

The Pit Boss clearly thought highly of his number one's opinions, for he readily consented.

"The grey mouse... not had a drink all day, has he?"

Throttle's ears pricked up at this remark. It was bad enough what was being done to him - and it was awful that his friend was there to see it - but this was a new low, and a despicable one. He glanced up at the other mouse, who seemed horrified as it was at all the urine dripping down his body and face... but with what they were hinting at adding to it... No, he looked absolutely mortified. Which was just how the tan mouse felt.

Modo was being invited to  _participate_  in humiliating his friend. He was unchained and brought up to the sodden mouse, so close that he was standing in the same, yellow puddle as he, and ordered to 'make him look presentable' – whatever that meant. It didn't matter what he did, it wouldn't be enough to get rid of that appalling smell.

The poor, placid-natured mouse spent the next hour trying to not add to his companion's misery by vomiting on him too. He knew if he did then one of them, or both of them, would be told to deal with it. And it was bad enough having been made to consume his master's secretions, and now half the pit crew's piss that he was licking from the tan fur, without having to eat their part-digested gut contents as well.

When he thought he could take no more he stepped back. He had been working on trying to get the corrosive fluids away from his bro's eyes and mouth, but had kept his own single eye tightly shut the entire time. He didn't need to see to find the hidden contours of the furry face, for he knew it almost intimately. Now he was standing further away he caught sight of the expression on that same face. A longing. A desperate desire. It was that same emotion he saw before, the one that said he was so embarrassed and disgusted with himself that he just wanted someone to take hold of him and tell him it was ok, and that it wasn't his fault.

And having just been licked so lovingly by his older bro regardless of how fouled he was, Throttle was left needing more.

Modo saw it, and considered for a moment resuming the caress. If that's what his companion required to keep him going, then no matter how sick it made him he wouldn't hesitate to provide it. He could pretend he was only taking a breather, he thought, as he stepped back towards the damp-furred face. He was only inches away before he felt the sharp jerk of his collar.

"No I think you've done enough of that." The Pit Boss had waved his hand to have the grey mouse taken back to his previous position, but he was still thinking of something else. Watching the two mice interact was intriguing to him. Their method of bonding really was animal-like, which was appropriate really. He wondered if he could use this somehow, and turn it into something more... amusing.

"I hear you boys are pretty close. I wonder though,  _how close_?"

His captive audience were quickly brought back to attention by that comment. They were all curious to see where this was leading. A few gave nervous titters, whilst others were watching with an almost hungry intent. Everyone had a vague idea of the nature of what might come next.

"Every time you come together you can't seem to get enough of each other. Maybe you would like to get a little closer... some quality time, perhaps?"

Both mice's breath came short.  _Did he see us, or did someone else?_ It was a worrying thought. The Pit Boss knew about them having physical contact with each other, which was supposedly banned, and though they couldn't be certain it sounded like he knew about the night in the workshop, when they had been allowed a moment to embrace. If this was the case someone was definitely in trouble.

_Or did Wes give us away? Did he let us cuddle only to go and tell on us later?_

However their master knew, and for however long, until today he had not acted on it.

The foul felon had turned to the grey mouse, who was already chained back onto the wall away from the throne. He knew he had just found himself a really fantastic method of subjugating both the mice to his will.

"Seeing as you are having a hard time responding to me, maybe you will have better luck doing it with him, yes?"

Modo shot the other mouse a look of alarm. Had the man just suggested what he thought he had?

_Oh Moma... this is so wrong on so many levels._

He wasn't at all referring to actually coupling with his bro. This was commonplace amongst his species, and in fact was practically encouraged amongst groups of mice who worked or fought together. He must have engaged in this kind of activity with the fair majority of the freedom fighter unit he was part of, and Throttle no doubt had done it with everyone in his command. It was an important part of comradery amongst Martian alliances. You had to know your friends well, so well in fact you could practically predict their every move, and know their every thought and feeling. Simply put, bonding like this brought everyone in tune with each other. This was the reason why the three bikers got on and worked so well with each other. Disputes that arose between them were frequently settled between the bed sheets.

What was so wrong about this was also not about being watched. Again, this was a normal thing for them. But it was about who was watching, and why, and where.

The pit crew and their master felt no affection, admiration, respect or loving towards them, and so they had no right to witness such an intimate act of bonding. Also, though Martian mice were not prudes, such displays were deemed too risky to be performed in front of enemies, unless there was some advantage to it (to some species it made them look like savages and not to be messed with, to others it embarrassed them so much they ran away without a fight).

As for why - being forced to wasn't a good reason for sex by anyone's standards. And where? Well. The piss and blood-drenched stone flooring wasn't exactly the nicest of places to get intimate with someone.

"I'll give you a choice, mouse. Either you do it, or  _we_  do." The Pit Boss's ultimatum, and gesture around the waiting members of his legion, made both mice cringe in response.

Throttle winced. He remembered well what it felt like to be visited by an unwelcome queue of lewd, testosterone-crazed brutes. It was the last thing he remembered from his time in the original Pits.

He didn't know that his dumb-struck friend also had the same recollection, yet he stared at him with his eyes pleading, begging him to not let it happen again.

Modo frowned. He knew he had just been given his friend's consent. He still didn't like it, but he would give anything, do anything, to not have to witness that kind of abuse ever again. Nor be subjected to it himself. If he didn't do this, it might not just be the tan mouse spreading his tail end for all here to use.

The grey head nodded, but he kept his eyes low. This was beyond doubt a deeply shameful act amongst all others. It wasn't the worst thing, but it was close.

He was being unchained again. He was being led over to his acrid-smelling companion, his fur still not clean despite his efforts. Someone was pulling on the tan-furred tail, raising it up and over his bro's piss-drenched back. Someone else was pulling on his own neck chain, and the metal links were following the tethered tail. The mid-section of his shackles was being disconnected to allow him to mount.

He tried to block everything out and only focus on his companion. His close companion. His closest.

It was too difficult, there was no way he would be able to do this, not here, not now. But he had to, somehow, because the alternative was far worse.

Throttle's head was turning. He was straining against his own chain, trying to reach him. His ruby eyes were fixed on him. Telling him something. Asking him something.

_Let me help you._

The tan mouse knew what to do, all he needed was for Modo to give his own consent. After a few seconds where their gazes met, and their thoughts somehow passed between them, he knew he had got the message through.

Modo edged himself around so his back end was within reach of his bro's snout. His leash was taut, but whoever was holding it must have been given the nod, because it soon went slack.

The tan tail was reaching under his chest for its own means of stimulating him, and the furred face pushing down between his hind legs met the appendage at their target. It only took a minute. A few licks, a gentle nuzzle, and a tickle. And then a head-butt. Throttle was pushing him away. The grey mouse turned again, and gasped as he felt the tail go after its new target. He could feel the soft downy hairs inside him as it writhed around, it searching for the way to help the mouse get started.

And then the tail was gone, and his leash was taut again.

He wasn't exactly primed – who could be in this situation? – but the tan mouse had done enough.

The arena erupted in a hundred cheers, the applause almost deafening. Somewhere amongst the cacophony a single voice penetrated, slicing through the celebration and into his shame-filled heart.

It said  _well done_.

Then he was being pulled from his friend. He hadn't been given time to finish. They didn't want him to feel any pleasure, they just wanted him to do as he was told. And he had. And now his Master had exactly what he wanted.

As he was lain on his back he realised that the face at his side was familiar. It was gaunt, and pale, the dark hair was streaked with grey, the hollow cheeks cast with a shadow of short stubble. His hands were rough, the skin thickened and scarred. Burned. The hands of a working man. A metal worker. And those hands were doing something to him, something unthinkable to a mouse like him. To any male mouse.

"Excellent work, my boy, excellent. And you're sure this will keep it in place?"

"Yes Sir, for as long as it's remains attached."

"Oh good. You will be rewarded well for this. Now return to your duties, I still have matters to attend."

Modo's eyes had widened to their fullest extent, and he groaned pitifully as the welder stood away. He almost couldn't believe what the man had done. He had observed them, and got the information he needed for his boss. It wasn't just the distances between body parts the man had taken that day. He had gotten a good measure of their behaviour as well. He had found out exactly how to get the mouse to give his master what he really wanted.

And to make the betrayal all the worse, he had made sure the mouse would now not be able to deny the malodorous monster from getting his hands on him. The iron clip tightened around the base of his exposed shaft had taken care of that.

The Pit Boss lowered himself down to continue his inspection of the exposed mouse. He intended to spend quite a while with his hands between those furry legs, and he was certain that by the time he had finished with him, the grey mouse would dearly wish he had never tried to keep himself from his master's touch.

He leaned his head forward across the quivering grey body, barely able to contain the triumph in his voice.

"I told you,  _rat-boy_. I told you I own your sorry, tight ass." Modo swallowed down the cry that almost escaped him as his master spoke, his grimy hands tightening around the sensitive exposed parts. "And I decide who touches  _my_  property, which is something that now you won't  _ever_  be able to forget."


	14. Who am I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is happening to Charley?

The floor of the lab was cool to the touch, and the slight bubble-like texture of its surface, soft and grainy rather than smooth, reminded her somewhat of expensive linoleum. It was an off-white, perhaps ivory was the best word for it. And cushiony. Why this was she didn't know, but it absorbed every footstep placed on it and muffled even the heaviest pounding of those boots.

Whose boots? Oh yeah, that's right. The guards'. It didn't wear boots. In fact for all she knew it might not even have feet.

Maybe that's what the tile was for. If it didn't have footwear, and if the ends of its legs weren't made for hard surfaces, it would make sense. They couldn't have it too soft or else the machines wouldn't be level, and the trolleys wouldn't be able to be wheeled around on it.

Whatever the reason, her naked soles appreciated it.

She didn't even remember taking her own shoes off. There was a gap, somewhere between the code being punched into the last door and getting off the table.

Normally the last thing in her memory was the pale face looking down at her as it attached the goggles to her eyes. And then that strange feeling. It kind of hurt. A pressure, a sting, a jolt of electricity perhaps. As she couldn't see what was going on she couldn't really be sure, but that's what it felt like.

She should have been in her bed now, waking up, her eyes watering in the afternoon light, her ears buzzing as they adjusted to the silence. Or not. Sometimes he would be talking, but lately even that had become a rarity. The most she might get was a grunt of recognition. Not that she begrudged him his silence. He was in so much pain nearly all the time now he could barely speak. No, she was getting used to the quiet. Six months ago she might have welcomed it, but now the emptiness only added to her unease.

_Why am I still here?  Shouldn't I be sleeping?_

Maybe she was sleeping, she thought. This must be a dream. One of those dreams. The important ones. She had to pay attention, but she couldn't help the distraction coming from her lower extremities. That flooring really did feel marvellous to her skin. She almost wanted to lay down on it and let it caress her entire body. It wouldn't bother her to abandon her clothing – she wasn't wearing much anyway.

Another thing she couldn't remember doing. They didn't normally strip her for these procedures. But here she was, in nothing but a gown, and with the slight air current causing her body hair to tingle, she was sure it wasn't even done up on the back.

_Oh great, let's hope this guy ain't a perv._

She knew the guards wouldn't be interested in her, but this mute creature playing with his instruments whilst she stood there with her butt hanging out, who knew? And she was only assuming he was a he.

It. That was a better word. It was coming towards her, and for some reason her legs refused to move her. Her mind said run, her body said  _why bother_?

Her mind argued that it might have other plans for her. Her body said yes, isn't that what you want? You want to know, right?

_Oh crap. You're right. I'm right. Wait... am I talking to myself?_

Charley stood there whilst this discussion played out in her mind. Meanwhile her body was being stripped again, and her arms were being lifted. There were several sharp scratches, and they managed to break through the rant her mind was having, jolting it once more back to reality.

_Ouch. What the hell?_

The alien must have used some kind of drug on her, some sort of sedative, or paralytic, or something else. She could feel what was being done, but she had no free will over what her body was doing. It did. It was moving her around, raising her arms, lowering them again, lifting her left foot, then her right, then her chin. Opening and shutting her eyes for her (it must have known that blinking was important), then her mouth, then her eyes again. And all the while there was this sensation of sharp objects poking her. It was a mystery what it was doing. She half expected to look vaguely like a Christmas tree, adorned with wires and lights. But her sensitive skin said otherwise. Whatever it was doing, there was no external evidence whatsoever.

After that she was being re-dressed. But not with her own clothes. Not with the gown either. Not with Plutarkian dress robes, nor even vaguely civilian style attire. No. This uniform was distinctly military.

She only knew this because she caught sight of her reflection for a moment as they exited the lab. The set of sliding glass doors separating this part from the de-con chamber acted as a perfect mirror.

_Now where are we going? Back to my cell, or to that other place?_

Neither. Once out the lab the guards led her down another narrow corridor – not the one she had come in by. The alien stayed behind. Its domain was the lab, and only the lab, it seemed. This corridor didn't go on forever like the one leading in appeared to, but terminated in another chamber. There were several more doors, and several more anti-chambers. There was little of note in the first few, but the last two really did make an impression.

The first of these, and the larger, had a sizeable control panel and several view screens. The lights blinking on the panel showed that it was active, but the monitors on the wall were blank.

There was another Plutarkian in the room, and he was sat at the desk in front of the panel, pressing buttons and tweaking levers. He said something to the guards, but she didn't understand it.

_Probably spoke in their native tongue. I don't know why they use English at all._

She was briefly reminded of sci-fi TV shows back on Earth. No matter where humans travelled, everyone always seemed to speak English. With an American accent too. It had always amused her, until she realised a lot of alien life  _did_  converse in her own language.

The mice had explained that Earth fascinated other sentient beings, mainly because the variety of inventions and technological innovations there were so astounding, and so very interesting. And yet space travel was the one thing humans really hadn't gotten to grips with yet. Other species indulged themselves in monitoring human communications, but tended to largely keep away because they weren't yet seen as any kind of threat.

_If the satellite broadcasters knew their shows were being watched in space, they would probably be demanding the revenue._

The aliens also quickly realised that English seemed to the language of multinational relations on the planet, and decided that, for future use, it might be a good idea to indulge in that too.

_I guess first contact is going to be easier than even Hollywood imagines. Except they don't know it's already happened._

Lost in her musings the woman hadn't noticed she wasn't in the control room anymore, but had been led into the final chamber. In here there was only one thing, but it dominated the tiny room in the same kind of manner a Martian mouse did in her tiny garage bathroom. Except the thing in front of her was more like her shower cubicle, and she was the one stepping into it.

_I hope this isn't some kind of wash room. These clothes actually feel quite clean. Better than my own._

Being stuck inside the same clothes for months on end made her appreciate the luxuries of her home life all the more. She often wondered if the Plutarkians wanted her to smell as bad as they did, because if they did then they were onto a winner. Even Limburger suggested she give herself a more thorough wash from time to time.

_Might be easier if they gave me more than just a pathetic lump of rock for soap._

There we go again, she thought. She was meant to be concentrating, and yet her mind was going off on a tangent. This thing clearly wasn't a bathing facility. But she was being put inside it, and the door was sliding shut behind her. They left her facing away, inside, so she shouldn't see what was happening, but it was a given the door was made of Plutarkian glass. Even if she could move she wasn't getting out.

Then there came a strange feeling again. A bit like the one on the table. The pressure, the sting. The electric current coursing through her. Only this time her eyes were open, and they detected a whole series of changes around her, so much so she actually felt kind of sick. Like being on an out-of-control merry-go-round. Lights flashing and whirling. A spinning of the world around her.

Whilst wishing dearly she could close her eyes, fearing losing the food she had struggled in vain to keep down her gullet, the sensation went on and on relentlessly until finally everything went black.

_Thank goodness for that. What next?_

What next indeed. The next thing she was aware of was standing in a sort of storeroom, one she had seen dozens and dozens of times before but never really been able to focus on. This time was different, the image of the place was very clear. In fact, she couldn't just see more clearly, she could think more clearly. Or at least a part of her could. There was another part, a bigger one, and she had no control over what it was doing at all.

It had control over her.

It was making her pick up something from a rack on the wall. A weapon. Several weapons. Knife-like objects slipping into the sheath on her thigh and the belt around her waist. A large rifle slung over her back. Several laser pistols tucking into her holsters.

Then she was turning to something that looked oddly like a human's bedroom dresser. She was picking up a small object, a badge of sorts, and pinning it to her lapel.

Her feet were moving again, this time out of the room. There was another long corridor, but it was empty, and at the end there was a door. She was punching a code into it, but she had no idea how she knew what numbers to press. Whatever was controlling her did though. The door slid back, and there it was. The room she had seen in her dreams. The war room, she called it.

Her presence had a marked effect on the other occupants. Several gave an peculiar sort of salute. Others a nod. The odd one snorted in contempt and turned their back on her.

Clearly they had mixed feelings about her.

_Maybe they're wondering what a simple earthling could have to offer. But then if I am the one in command...somehow... and ordering places to be blown up. Maybe they don't like the decisions I am making._

Their voices, for the first time ever, were not distorted. There was a lot of chatter, though most of it still made no sense to her. All military style vocab. Technical terms. Jargon. Stuff that the mice sometimes came out with when they were deciding on tactics. Stuff that she never had any real interest in.

It was a good job that whatever, or whoever, was controlling her body did have an interest, or at least knowledge. Words were coming out of her mouth she never imagined, not in a million years, that she would be saying.

She was asking for reports. She was demanding to know more. She was reprimanding someone for doing a poor job. Praising someone else for a gem of valuable intel.

Then a light flashed, and someone's voice came on the radio.

" _We're in range, but we don't have much time. What's the call, general?"_

She was saying something, more jargon, more orders. But for a moment she lost concentration, her thoughts elsewhere.

_General? I'm a general now?_

When she focused again the radio was filled with static, interspersed with panicked shouts that filtered through to her and the others she was among. Everyone in the room was tense. Several were trying to get through to whoever was at the other end. They were in trouble. They were being attacked; whoever they were in range of must have spotted them first.

Someone else was speaking to her.

"That's the sixth time this week. How the hell do they know?" The source of the voice, a Martian... a rat of all things, was pulling her to one side. He lowered his voice. "I think we've got a leak, Sir."

"How many does that make it now?" This was her speaking, but it didn't sound like it.

"This one makes it... nearly seventeen. And they're being clever about it too. Not every mission. Just enough to really hurt us. We need to take action on this..."

The rat looked worried. She could tell from his expression, from the slight mournful look in his eyes, that he had lost people he cared for in these attacks.

"I know, Frost, I know. But who do we trust?"

"Let me do some digging. I will find us a few who wouldn't even let disloyalty cross their minds. When we have them on board, we can find the mole."

_A mole?  They have a leak in their unit. I wonder..._

Another communicae was coming through. It was from the same person who had been on the radio earlier. Apparently only a handful made it out of the attack alive. Their ship was destroyed. They were requesting assistance, an evac. They were pleading. They knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Sir. We need a decision. We have delta team on standby... do we send them in?"

For the first time Charley could feel something more than just external stimuli. She could sense something inside too. It was... guilt? Sorrow? Whatever it was it wasn't nice, and she had a fair idea why. She was going to deny the request. And worse.

"No. We can't risk it. You know the protocol, and so do they."

The alien at the comms desk was back on the radio. He was vaguely humanoid, but his ears sat on top of his head. Like a chimp with cat ears. And purple fur. But the same kind of face as an ape. Expressive. He wasn't happy with the order.

"Operation protocol seventy-seven, commander." The rest was in another language, as was the reply. But the tone of voice told her everything she needed to know. It was a resignation to his fate. It was a goodbye. It was a 'tell my family and friends' his final message. After that the line went dead. Delta team had made sure there would be no prisoners, and nothing to trace them back to here. Wherever here was.

Charley's body was in turmoil. It had turned on its heels the moment the line went dead, and walked briskly back out of the room, down the corridor and into the store-room/closet/dressing room or whatever the hell it was. She didn't care much. She could feel her mouth tightening, her eyes squinting. She could feel her cheeks twitch, her stomach churn, the warm wetness on her face.

She could feel herself sitting on the little stool in front of the dresser. She could feel herself hugging her body as the emotion took over. She could feel her tail winding tighter and tighter around her legs, embracing her so hard it was if she thought she really would fall to pieces right there.

_Wait a minute... my tail?_

Her face was buried in her hands, her elbows resting on the dresser. There was something strange about what her palms were feeling. And it wasn't just the tears streaming down beneath them.

_Dammit, take your hands away and let me get a look at you._

Maybe the other part of her heard the hidden voice. After a few minutes of her ranting at herself, trying to order herself to pull herself together for a second, wipe her eyes and take a look in that mirror she was sat in front of...

She was staring back at her reflection. Only it wasn't her reflection at all. It wasn't even human.

She was looking into the emerald green eyes of a Martian mouse.

_The eyes look like mine... but she looks like..._

The resemblance was uncanny, but she knew it couldn't be her... surely? She had the same rank. General. And the voice... well it could be distortion but it did sound similar.

_Oh my god._

The questions were erupting in her buried subconscious like a badly-made disaster movie. Now she had absolutely no idea what was going on. What had seemed so clear cut in her earlier visions was now more foggy than her head had once been.

_There's no way she would ever work for the Plutarkians. Heck, I don't honestly think any Martian mouse would._

But then why were there fish on this base at all? Could one of them be the leak? It didn't settle well with her at all.

The alternative was even more distasteful.

_What the hell am I doing here? Why am I in her?_

At first she had concluded she was merely a vessel of knowledge, providing intel to the fish-like aliens so that they could make progress against the resistance. And there was a lot of resistance. They had pissed a lot of people off in their quest for resources.

But now... now she had doubts. Seeing as it wasn't even her calling the shots. Or was it?

_Maybe this is like what Karbunkle did to Vinnie. Create a robot, let my mind control it, only my mind isn't free. They are controlling me, and I am controlling her. It. Whatever... whoever._

If that was the case then there was only one very awful conclusion to be made from this.

_I'm the leak._

And with that in mind it also meant something else. She was responsible for the seventeen sabotaged missions, and thus also for all the lives that had subsequently been lost. Including that distraught-sounding commander on the radio.

_But then why do I feel so sad? I should be happy if I have just scuppered another one of their missions... shouldn't I?_

But the feeling of desolation and remorse was fading. Even the image in the mirror was slowly vanishing. The last thing she saw before it went completely was a single tear beading in her startling green eyes, and it running down her grey-brown snout and over the tip of her little black nose.

"Urgh... someone turn off the lights. Its almost blinding in here."

Silence.

Charley opened her eyes and found herself on her bunk. It must have been that time again, in the afternoon, when the planet's giant star cast its light directly through her bars, the dirty atmosphere filtering out most of the spectrum and leaving only this orange hue. At least it carried some warmth, though for how much longer was anyone's guess. The planet was rapidly chilling since the Tug Transformer crashed into it; the rocky crust thrown up into the air with the force of the impact was blocking out much of the radiation from the sun.

But the woman had long since put that terrible image behind her. She was stuck on the dying planet, and there was little she could do to change what had happened to it.

For a moment she lay there whilst the headache took over. It was dreadful, and she desperately wanted a curtain for the window, and a bowl beside her. It was a huge effort to drag herself to the toilet every time she wanted to puke.

Eventually the nausea passed. She lay there in the silence. It had been a while now. It was obvious she was awake... why wasn't he speaking?

_Maybe he is asleep. I won't wake him. He needs the rest._

But then she remembered why she wanted to speak to him. It was important. Very important. It could mean life or death... or salvation.

"LIMBURGER!"

She yelled so loud even the guard at her door jumped. Charley threw herself off her cot, staggered around for moment whilst she got her balance, and stumbled over to the cell next door.

For the last week there had been a door allowing her access to the neighbouring cell. They had installed it so she could go in to tend to the fish's needs. She had spent hours inside there, no longer just holding his hands when the agonising spasms came to him.

She had become his nursemaid.

He had gotten too big for the bunk, and so the guards had moved his filthy mattress onto the floor and lain him on it. And there he had stayed, unable to lift himself from it with the size of his enormous belly.

She had had to feed him, wash him (she insisted on that, he smelt so bad she couldn't bear to be that close for so long without doing something about it) and feed him some more. The mountain of food he had to get through was unbelievable. He had to graze all day long, picking at the plates of foul bug-like fare, unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time. The pressure on his innards was tremendous.

And he was in so much pain. Inbetween mouthfuls he would cry out, but she had to keep going. He had to eat or he would die. He wanted to die, too, but he knew they wouldn't let him. If he didn't eat willingly, he said, they would push a tube straight into his gut and put the food in directly... and wouldn't be so careful as they were about portion sizes.

The absence of his heavy breathing or his soft, pitiful moans made her positively panic.

_Is he dead? Why isn't he answering?_

The little doorway was locked. She was pulling on it, frantic, trying to get through to the cell to tend to the bed-ridden fish who needed her. He was so helpless he may as well have been a baby. A giant baby... who needed a diaper change.

"Limburger? Limburger wake up! It's me! I'm back. Uh..." She paused. She needed to get across the urgency of her message without alerting the guard. "I got something to tell you, about poker. I dreamt about poker again."

Normally she should have had a grunt by now, but still there was nothing. She couldn't see his mattress from the little door – it was near the front of the cell, and the wall to her left blocked him from view. She went back around to the bars by his bunk to see him.

Only he wasn't there. Her eyes wandered around his cell for a moment, trying to confirm his absence. Above his mattress where he had lain were several scratches in the wall. The number of lines, and the large, crimson stain on the filthy bedding told her exactly why she couldn't find him.

The eggs had hatched. They had taken him away to give birth.


	15. Pull the trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has its consequences.

Seeing them take Modo mid-shift was worrying. Seeing them take Throttle as well at shift end was alarming. He had caught the look of panic in his bro's face as they took him out of line, and it made him cringe. He hated seeing their leader so frightened. If someone as brave as him could be this distressed, what did it mean for them, his followers?

Modo was scared too, he could sense it. He managed to hide it well, outwardly, but nothing they grey mouse could do would be enough to shield his feelings from his smallest bro. Not since he had opened up to him. Not since he had shown him what happened in the Pits; not since he had forged a connection between their minds that was near enough unbreakable.

They all had a connection, anyway, an ability to sense each other's moods and motivations, forged between them when they had bonded, strengthened through touch and shared experiences, and heightened during stress, in times of need, or in battle. It was only vague, really, but it was enough to help them work more closely as a team. Obviously memory sharing was a more direct link to each other's minds, but they didn't do it that often. One side effect of such a melding was a longer lasting, even stronger connection between the participants. This usually waned over a few weeks, but in some rare instances it never really went away.

And in this case, since their lives had been interwoven with intensely difficult experiences, Vinnie was struggling to  _not_  see into his bro's mind.

He had been distracted all afternoon. He was trying pull his cart-load of rock across to the castle, but as each vision punched though his inner sight he lost all sense of what he was doing for a moment, and inevitably would find himself stumbling over his chains, and being brought back to reality once more by one of the guards.

They seemed to enjoy hitting him, he thought. They seemed to enjoy hitting everyone. They carried around with them a short, flexible rod, which didn't look that scary. Not until you felt it cut your skin. Even a light blow stung, and a heavier one was guaranteed to draw blood. He had seen one slave torn to pieces with one of these, and it didn't even take that many lashes. He hadn't seen him get back up. He wasn't even sure if he ever got back up. He felt sure that one day it would be either him or one of his bros lying shredded in a bloody puddle.

He had pulled himself to his feet again and carried on. Across to his left Throttle was hauling his own load, and he could see the mouse was also trying to not think about what was going on in the Pit Boss's chambers.

_At least he's not there this time. At least he doesn't have to see what i'm seeing right now._

Another image flash across his mind. He had seen it before, felt it before, but this time it went further. He was lying on his back, and he could see a whole succession of hands reaching for him. The chilling threat was echoing still in his ears, the one that made him finally give up his one last modicum of privacy.

"Get up you stupid rat, what do you think you're playing at?"

The guards were getting impatient with him today, but he couldn't help it. For some reason the visions were disturbingly vivid this time.

He made a conscious effort to not fall down again, but when he smelt in his nose the horrendous odour of unwashed body, smelt it as if it were he whose face was being shoved in for a close encounter...

He gained three lashes and another face-first dip in his stomach contents. He hadn't been able to stop himself having the same reaction as his bro.

_Jeez how does the big guy manage it?_

The answer was, he didn't really. The next 'vision' was a huge explosion of furious words and even more furious blows. Modo was near enough being beaten to within an inch of his life, though his sheer size absorbed the worst of it. Any human would be dead by the time it had finished.

It was fortunate that he had stopped to have his cart unloaded when this one came. Through blurred eyes he saw Throttle staring at him. His bro was mouthing something. It looked vaguely like ' _what the hell is wrong with you today?_ '

And then the shift was over, and his harness was being removed. He hadn't even realised how late it was.

He allowed Throttle to catch up with him as he staggered into line. He felt the tan snout press into his thigh for a moment, and he knew his friend was trying to find the cause of his behaviour. He would have returned the caress, too, if it hadn't been for the guards watching their every move. And if it hadn't been for the guards reaching down to drag his friend out of line.

_No not him too._

Having seen what kind of mood the Pit Boss was in, the last thing he wanted was to see his other bro being taken to share in his sick antics.

Throttle was petrified. As they connected his leash the mouse was rapidly emptying his bladder. Sometimes he wondered if his friend did it just out of fear, or whether there was a hidden purpose to it. From what he had seen in his visions, it was probably a good thing he didn't enter the arena needing to go the toilet.

Like Modo, though, the chemical message in his bro's bodily fluid screamed terror to him. It always made him want to do something, and so far he had managed to suppress it. But for some reason today it didn't want to be held back.

"No! Throttle no!"

He had yelled without thinking, and his bro looked back at him in disbelief.

"No!" He shouted again, and despite the shackles making his movements slow and awkward, he was trying to reach his bro and stop them taking him. Suddenly all those repressed instincts were surfacing, all of his protective urges, all of his suppressed desires to help his friends, all of them were fighting to get out and make him do something.

He did the only thing he could do. He couldn't run, but he could leap.  Sort of. He crouched for a second before using his legs as a spring, and flung himself onto the guard holding Throttle's chain. He bit the hand he was aiming for, having hit his target with incredible accuracy. For a few minutes he turned into the wild, savage animal that would do anything to protect its family. And then, as quickly as it started, it was all over.

"No, not here. Take him back to his cage, I will deal with him later. Pit Boss wants this one now, and he's not going to want to wait."

This was Flint. He had stepped in to pull Vinnie off the guard.

"Get to the infirmary, this rat's got a nasty bite. I should know." He turned to two other men who were overseeing the procession of slaves, both of whom had also jumped in to halt the squabble. "You two with me, just in case there's more trouble."

Without any sign of immediate punishment Vinnie was taken back to his cage. He knew it was only being delayed for later, but that didn't worry him. Though he suspected what Flint was going to do, right now he only cared about his two friends.

_They better not harm him. They better not touch him like they touched Modo. I'll kill him if he does. I'll kill them all._

He was pacing his tiny cage. Any moment the visions would return. Any moment he would see what the malicious monster had in mind for his bros. Any moment now...

"You should eat you know. Starving yourself won't stop what's happening to them."

Suddenly he was snapping out of his anxious, trance-like state, and turning to see who had just spoken. He recognised the voice, but it still surprised him.

Wes was by his cage, squatting by the locked door. The food bowl was filled with its usual, tasteless fare, and Vinnie found himself wondering if the man had been the one to bring it this time.

_He looks worried. What the hell has he got to worry about? He's not the one in a cage. He's not the one being tortured by his master._

The man looked weary, almost. He had something in his hands, and though the mouse couldn't make out what it was, he knew it was another one of his inventions. Something else the Pit Boss had had him make for him, and whatever it was it gave the mouse a funny feeling.

Without so much as an explanation for his visit, Wes was straightening up and heading off in the direction of the castle. Vinnie continued to stare at him until he was out of sight. He had a really bad feeling about this.

Then the visions came and once again he was distracted. He could see through Modo's eyes what they were doing to his bro.

_It's no wonder Throttle isn't who he used to be. They've taken every bit of self respect away from him._

He felt Modo's rage, his disgust, his anguish. He felt him considering the awful choice he was being given. He felt the love between the two of them as he made his decision.

_No matter what they do to them, they will never break their bond._

It gave him some hope, at least.

That hope quickly vanished when the last part of the vision came to him. The recognition. The feeling of betrayal. The terrible humiliation.

_Oh bro what has he done to you? What has he done? How could he?_

A few minutes later the welder was crossing the prison yard back to his workshop. The man didn't even look at him. Vinnie noticed him passing by, and stared in confusion. How could this man do something so degrading as this? Was he really doing it on orders, or did he have a part of him that enjoyed indulging the Pit Boss's strange whims?

Was that really the same man who had cleansed them and then given them some time together? Two things that were denied them, he had willingly provided. Was this really the same man, the one taking Modo's body and putting it on display?

He didn't know. How could he know? He couldn't exactly go and ask the man if he enjoyed seeing his bro exposed and groped and leered at.

By the time he managed to bring himself to eat it was nearly lights out. The food was barely settling in his stomach when he detected his bro's return, and it was now threatening to reappear. He had smelt them first. Half the prison could probably smell them. Piss, blood, vomit. All very pungent aromas. And then there was the other things, the things only someone like him would detect. Pheromones, hormones, chemicals in their sweat. He had seen it, now he could smell it.

He could hear Modo's groans as they led him to his cage. The only light now was from the lantern one of the guards was holding, and it wasn't enough for him to see for himself what Wes had done to him. He was going to have to wait until morning for that.

"Bro... bro..." Vinnie desperately wanted to tell him he knew what had happened, and that he was sorry, and that he loved him too. But how could he tell him that? The mouse was in pain, and not just physically. He could hear his broken breathing. He was trying to hold it in, but the sobs just kept on coming.

"Leave it, Vin. He's had enough for one day."

Throttle's whisper carried a gentle warning.

"I know... i'm sorry. Is this my fault?" Vinnie was referring to his earlier outburst.

"No. None of this is your fault. No matter what happens, don't ever think that. Ever." Even in the darkness it was obvious Throttle was also struggling with his emotions.

"Bro..." This time Vinnie was addressing the tan mouse. He didn't have to finish the sentence, his intentions carried over to his friend without words. Their tails met in the space between their cages and entwined. He knew Throttle needed it. The darkness would hide the gesture, thankfully, and the effect of his touch would keep the mouse going for another night.

"Hang on in there bro. Hang on."

If he was due to be punished, Vinnie was wondering exactly when they were intending to get around to it. His life continued on as if nothing had happened. He even saw the guard he had bitten, but no reprimand came even from him.

He started to wonder if the penalty was witnessing the aftermath of his bro's last lesson. He never managed to get used to the sight of Modo's private parts hanging out, but what made it even worse was just how sore it looked. Their penises were not meant to be kept out of their bodies for so long. Seconds usually, minutes maybe if that's how things were being played, but never  _permanently_.

The iron clip around the base of the shaft had slowed the return of the engorged blood from returning inside, but its purpose was not to maintain an erection.  The positioning of the metal had made it impossible for the protective sheath to fold back over the organ, leaving it exposed. Without the kind of thick outer skin that humans possessed, the sensitive, delicate membranes on the surface of the shaft were drying out, and were red and inflamed from being over-stimulated. And worse.

A few days later they were in the queue back to the prison when it happened. One of Flint's favoured henchmen was overseeing the procession, and as they approached him they saw the vicious look in his eyes.

He was a youngish man, early twenties maybe, with a completely shaved head and numerous tattoos in place of the hair. He was thick in the neck, and hard in the face, and his entire appearance suggested he was just as much of a brute as Flint.

The 'control stick' in his hand was tapping impatiently against his massive thigh. He was waiting.

The moment Modo was in range he pounced. The rod flashed by so quickly neither Throttle or Vinnie had really known where it went, not until they saw their friend crumbling in front of them.

"Bet you never saw that coming, did you? You filthy whore of a rat."

The stifled cries of agony coming from the grey mouse were awful. All it had taken was a light flick of the rod, but he was so sore it must have felt like a hammer blow.

The other guards were sniggering, and no doubt wished they had thought of doing something similar themselves. That no one else had yet suggested the Pit Boss had not given them the go-ahead. This particularly nasty thug of a guard must have a higher ranking in the hierarchy down here. Probably somewhere just under Flint.

"Now get up, you stupid animal, before I let you feel the tickle of my stick for a second time."

 _Tickle!_  Vinnie growled. No one spoke to his friend like that, especially not when they were this defenceless.

"Got something to say? No, didn't think so. Not unless you want to join him." The guard sneered, but the line was moving on and he had no choice but to follow. He could hear Modo crying behind him as he was tapped again, and again, until eventually someone must have stepped in and pulled the sobbing mouse to his feet.

_That bastard. How would he like it if I bit him on his?_

It certainly was tempting. If it had been him instead of Modo having to pleasure their fat, foul-bodied master, he most certainly would have sunk his teeth in. The grey mouse was too much of a gentleman for such savagery, but he wasn't. Given half the chance, he would like to get his teeth into many of the pit crew, and none too nicely either.

It wasn't much longer after that they were taken again. Vinnie didn't get the chance to fight for them this time, he was in the mine with his cart being loaded, and they were both by the unfinished wing of the castle having theirs unloaded. By the time he reached the castle himself they were already gone.

After that the visions came, and he decided the only way to get through another psychic assault from his bro's mind was to throw himself into his work. It wasn't easy. He got plenty more lashes that day, though they were mercifully light for a change.

Back at his cage he resumed his pacing. There were plenty of disturbing images, but at least there was something else. Their master must have decided that he enjoyed watching basic animal instincts at work, and was having Modo repeatedly mount his other bro. Vinnie could feel the grey mouse was in pain, but each time they paired he also felt the surge of love between them. What was simply a carnal act in the eyes of the Pit Boss was, for them, an effective way of bonding. Somehow they must have got past all the things that made it so very wrong, blanking out all else but each other in order to perform.

But then the man would yank the mice apart and resume his disgusting caress of his own, and they were left feeling only the indignity of their forced acts.

It made Vinnie so mad. His tail was thrashing around wildly as his temper flared, and he was so consumed by the anger he felt at this bro's treatment the sharp jerk to his hindquarters took him completely by surprise.

It was now he realised there was a face missing from the crowd in the arena. And that face was looking right down at him, and his hand had hold of his tail.

"Did you think I'd forgotten, rat-boy?"

Vinnie paled as he remembered. He was still yet to be punished.

"You've bitten me and my men for the last time rat. I swear to you, you won't be doing it again."

The threat was real. Flint had him by his collar and was pushing something over his snout. It was only a piece of cloth, which was then tied around his head, but somehow Vinnie knew this was just for starters.

He was being led to the workshop again, and this time he was led straight through the door.

"Don't start, Wes. I don't give a crap how busy you are. Pit Boss doesn't like his men being bitten by rats. Your orders are to put a stop to it. For good."

Wes turned at the sound of his door flying open, and glared at the tiresome thug dragging the white mouse into his home once again.

"For good huh? You think i'm that stupid Flint. If you're not happy with the halter I gave you, then it's tough shit."

"Oh really? Want to say that again, slave?"

"Yes,  _Sir_ , it's tough shit. Now fuck off and let me get on with my work."

The heated exchange between the two had Vinnie completely bewildered. He had been a slave... or he was a slave... but he was fighting his corner. Disobeying. He wondered if Wes would be punished for this.

"Fine. I'll stick with the stupid halter. But i'm not going anywhere. You'll stop what you're doing and you will watch. You will stand there and watch me punish this rat for his insubordination, and then you will stand there and watch me punish him for  _your_  insubordination."

Flint glared at the smaller man, expecting him to argue some more.

"Fine. Do what you gotta do Flint. And then fuck off."

Wes flipped over a bucket by his forge and sat himself down on it. He crossed his arms defiantly, daring the other man to tell him he couldn't take a seat.

Flint smirked.  _He's trying to look like it doesn't matter, but I know better. This is going to hurt him worse than taking the beating himself._

Vinnie felt his chain being tugged towards the wall, and soon he was tethered in his usual spot. Flint produced the halter from his back pocket, and deftly fixed it to the white furred face. He grinned as the whimpers became more and more muffled as the straps tightened. He was going to enjoy this, he thought, but the mouse most certainly would not.

Wes looked on at the scene infolding in front of him. He tried to keep his face indifferent, but Flint was right. He really didn't like what he was seeing. Or hearing. The gag was effective, yes, but it couldn't stifle the pitiful cries in the mouse's throat.

_Barbaric. That's the word. Who the hell beats and then rapes an animal anyway? I hate to think what happened to the family dog when he was at home._

Flint was making sure his audience got a good view. When he had finished the welder looked as impassive as ever, which annoyed him, but the mouse had definitely responded how he hoped.  _It won't be long now. Boss is going to get this mouse on his knees soon enough, I know it._

"Next time you try to fob me off, that'll be you on the floor, writhing around as I thrash you inside and out. Got it?"

For once Wes kept his mouth shut and nodded. He just wanted them to go away and leave him in peace.

_Whatever you say, you piece of shit._

Flint sneered and dragged his prisoner back to the cages. Vinnie lay there in a daze once the door locked behind him, hardly able to come to terms with what had just happened. He had completely forgotten about his bro's. It took him a while to realise he was still wearing the halter. Apparently his punishment extended to starving him as well.

At some point in the night his bros returned, but he wasn't in any state to acknowledge them. He lay there on his side, the aching on his back, his legs, and inside him, preventing him from curling up against the cold.

But he wasn't upset. He was still angry. If anything Flint's punishment made him want to rip their throats out all the more.

Mercifully one of the guards removed his gag in the morning. They noticed the untouched food, but rather than swap it or just leave him with the old stuff, they actually dumped the fresher glop on top and left him with a double portion.

_Either they know what Flint did and don't like him, or they just can't be bothered messing around. All the better for me I guess._

The extra food gave the mouse more energy that day, and somehow he was able to grit his teeth as the leather harness was tightened over his swollen, bruised skin, and carried on with his work as if nothing had happened. And he tried to hide the blood between his legs with his tail, though he knew the action was more telling than anything. His bros knew he had been abused again.

Vinnie didn't care. He didn't care what they did to him. The first chance he got someone was going to pay for what they were doing to his friends.

He didn't have to wait long. At shift end one of the other guards took it upon himself to take a pot shot between Modo's legs when he thought no one was looking. He didn't even realise Vinnie's harness had already been undone.

The adrenalin surging through him gave him all he needed. That large breakfast helped a little too. By the time someone had realised what was happening, the man was already dead.

Throttle and Modo stood there in horror, transfixed by what they had just witnessed. Their bro, blood dripping off his bared teeth, had just taken a life. A guard's life. And quite possibly lost his own in the process. He may as well have just pushed a gun into his mouth and got it over with, they thought.

_No bro... what have you done? Oh Vinnie what have you done?_

There were people shouting. The guards were piling in to pull Vinnie away from the body that was still in his jaws. They couldn't get him to loosen, so someone began hitting him on the head. Eventually they knocked him out, and were frantically trying to revive the man. It was too late. For him, and for the mouse.

Flint was there now, and he looked extremely pleased with himself. He knew his actions the night before were responsible for this, though he hadn't expected the mouse to use his teeth. And now he was on his radio, gleefully summoning his boss.

The two older mice were still stood there, dumbstruck at the turn of events. They weren't stupid, they knew that all the times they had been taken wasn't just to torture them. It was to mess with their bro's head. The Pit Boss knew all along that Vinnie hadn't given up on his own vow to protect them. But it had happened so suddenly, really, and at a truly bad time.

_I guess every mouse had his limits. Vinnie must have reached his._

This was the proverbial last straw, it seemed. Within minutes they heard the familiar heavy footfalls of their master. The whole drama had unfolded just outside his castle, so he didn't have far to travel to reach the gory scene. His face certainly was a picture.

On the one hand he looked really, really,  _apoplectically_  angry. One of his slaves had just attacked one of his crew. If it had been anyone else they would have been dealt with right there and then. But it wasn't anyone else, it was the white mouse. The one he had been waiting for all this time. And because of this he also looked deliriously happy.

He stood over the unconscious mouse, his electric whip in hand, his booted feet dangerously close to standing on the slave at his feet.

"Ahh, at last. I'll give it to you mouse, you surpassed my expectations. I never expected you to actually succeed in hurting one of my men, let alone killing one. Mores the pity for you. If you hadn't killed him I might have been more lenient."

Vinnie wasn't aware of the words being directed at him, but his two friends were. The last time they had seen the Pit Boss looking like this they had been taken to the pavilion and downgraded from slave to animal. As they were already at this lowest station, they didn't dare think what was coming for their bro.

"Take him to my chambers, treat his wounds, clean him up. I want him conscious when I get around to dealing with him."

Flint nodded and signalled to a group of his men to haul the blood-covered white mouse away.

"What about them boss? You still want to play with them tonight?"

"No, no. They stink enough as it is, make sure they get a shower, and whatever else. And send Wes to the castle."

"And if he won't come?"

"If he won't come? He will come. He knows better."

The Pit Boss gave one last glance at the two other mice before stomping away, and Flint was back on the radio. Their master was right. Wes didn't have any objections. As they were led back to the cages they saw the man running at full speed towards the castle.

_So I guess he really is the Piss Boss's. He probably has some other nasty invention somewhere, one made just for Vinnie._

Throttle sighed at the empty cage between him and Modo. He was also shivering. The powerful jet of water used to clean them both was not a warm one.

He glanced over at the older mouse, who was also suffering from the cold. They held each other's gazes for a while, their thoughts and feelings showing on their faces, passing between them almost as if they were conversing freely. They knew that when, or even if, they saw their bro again he would be different. He had finally cracked, as the Pit Boss intended. Now the remains of his strong, wilful shell, the essence of what made Vinnie a fearless warrior, and a caring friend, their bro... that would soon be broken, and whatever was left of him would probably never be able to be pieced back together again.


	16. Birth or death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eggs have hatched and Limburger is in trouble.

Even before it had really sunk in the guards were there. Several guards, in fact, and they all seemed to be in high spirits. Excited. If it hadn't been for the setting of their gathering it could practically have been called a party.

Charley startled at the sudden filling of the silence with their mirth. She turned to see seven of the green-scaled aliens, and they all seemed to be focused on something, so she moved to the door of her cell for a better look.

_They can't be serious. They're doing it live?_

The warden and his men had set up a viewing screen in the small guard station outside her cell, and on it was a kind of news broadcast, with a commentator, a presenter, and words scrolling across the screen giving updates of the event that was on air. There were hundreds... no,  _thousands_ of people, all waiting, all watching. All looking at one thing.

The woman gasped as the camera panned across the thronging mass, zooming out as it went so that it could capture the enormity of the crowd. It eventually settled on the object of their attention, and began to zoom in again for the close up. There, filling the screen in front of her, was a giant glass-walled tank. An aquarium. It must have been nearly twenty feet tall, and ten feet wide, and was filled with a navy blue fluid, the consistency of ordinary water coloured with dye. Above the tank was a platform, and a metal frame of sorts, with something that reminded her of a body-harness that parachuters wore hanging from it.

The crowd were getting excited as the commentator continued his narrative. Then he was passing over to the presenter, who was live on the scene. He looked like much of the other beings on this planet, only he wasn't as obese as most. His fish-like face held that quality of most journalists, professional yet enthusiastic. He was telling the camera about previous events as this. Apparently this was the first in a while, which meant it was extremely special. He joked about the High Chairman's choice of candidate, and mused over whether or not there was a more worthy fish out there for the job. He told the chortling commentator that this fish must have really pissed their leader off.

The commentator replied to him and the viewers. It was a fitting punishment for someone who had nearly destroyed their planet, he said. He went on to give the populous a brief history of the man who was to delight them all today. The useless son of a mid-rank fish, who tried to climb the chain of command but always spectacularly failed. He reminded the audience of his previous blunders (Mars, the biker mice, Chicago, his unexpected election to High Chairman and the doomed armada to Earth). By the time he had finished it was no wonder the fish was the laughing stock of Plutark.

The crowd buzzed again, and the presenter cut in.

"Here we have it, ladies and gents. May we present to you Lawrence Lactavius Limburger! Disgrace of the Pisces nebula, and  _honoured_ brooding chamber for our most highly respected Lord High Chairman Camembert!"

The audience transitioned from boos and hisses to raucous cheers as the presenter introduced the two Plutarkians of interest. Camembert himself was shown on screen, standing behind a podium besides the tank, his insidious features spread in a ghastly grin that bore all of his needle-like teeth. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

The camera had also found the other man. A large truck-like vehicle had pulled up next to the base of the tank and its contents were being unloaded as the presenter was speaking. A trolley was being wheeled out of its rear doors, and on this trolley was what must have been the biggest fish on the entire planet. Or at least its belly was.

Limburger's stomach was enormous. It was so big you couldn't even see his legs beneath him where he sat. There was no way he would be able to walk, let alone stand. The last time Charley had seen him his limbs were so thin, so wasted from lack of nutrition, they looked like cocktail sticks poking out of his gigantic abdomen.

And his face was thin too. Drawn. Even through the sagging mask that he still insisted on wearing it was obvious he was afraid. It was even more clear just how much pain he was in. He could barely breathe from the pressure on his body, but every shallow gasp came with a moan of agony. Charley looked at him being wheeled to the lift platform at the base of the tank and felt a terrible twinge of guilt.

_Oh man. I should have found a way to end this sooner. Not even someone like him deserves this._

But what could she have done, she thought? She had no way to put him out of his misery other than help him starve, but they both knew that hadn't been an option. Seeing him now made her strengthen her resolve to keep her promise. She wouldn't let him suffer again if there was another way.

The platform was rising and the crowd was going wild. The presenter and commentator were both deep in discussion about the nature of the birth. They revealed information on his family documents, stating that he had been confirmed a spawner. At this the audience gasped. This really was going to be bad for him. This really was a punishment.

The presenter mused over whether or not the eggs were spawner too. "Certainly, given his size, any betting man would go for spawner." The commentator laughed. And so did the crowd.

But Charley didn't. The guards, who were glued to the screen like a bunch of starving vultures, were all giggling at the conversation between the journalists. The woman felt disgusted at them. At all of them. It was bad enough they had done such a thing to the wayward fish, but putting him out on show to be further tormented... that was abhorrent. It was as bad as the public executions that were carried out on Earth.

_We're no better. We may be different species, we may live billions of miles apart, but we're no different really._

The petrified Plutarkian was on the platform now, and his minders were busy strapping him into the harness. There were several of them up there, some just to stand him up so the others could fit the straps around him. But not before they had stripped him bare, adding yet another humiliating insult to this whole depressing debacle.

They had even taken off his mask, which clearly distressed him the most. Behind the rubber moulding of his human features was a face not unlike the ones staring up at him. Only his was showing the signs of malnourishment, and shame, and fear. Theirs were well-fed, confident and leering. They were baying for his blood now, and they were going to get it.

Camembert's voice came over the din. "My fellow fish, may I please ask for quiet now? The birthing is due to begin!" He paused whilst the cheers exploded around him. It didn't seem likely that they would honour his request, but as he was their leader they eventually did as they were asked. Every single member of the audience stilled. The only sound now was the whimpers of the bloated figure dangling freely from the harness.

"Limburger, how nice to see you finally have something of use to offer your people. I'm sure even you couldn't possible mess this one up."

The near silence was filled briefly with the titters of amusement, but this quickly died away. Nobody wanted to miss hearing the sounds uttered by the reviled prisoner as he was subjected to this ultimate punishment.

As if in response Limburger groaned loudly. Even on screen the pulsations of his belly were clear for all to see. The fry inside him were writhing around, free of their casings, and searching for their way out. And as there was only one way out, it was going to be quite a calamity when they finally found it. The narrow exit from his once-vestigial brooding chamber was still mostly fused shut, but that wouldn't stop the small army of hatchlings from making their way to freedom.

The camera was zooming in on Limburger's body. It couldn't get a decent picture so the screen flicked to another camera, one that was situated somewhere up on the platform itself, probably on the strong frame that was supporting the giant mass hanging from it. It was close enough to zoom right into him. Now it was all the more evident just how much trouble he was in.

The camera hovered briefly over the bulging, pulsating belly before dropping down to its lowest point. There, filling the screen for all to see, was a close-up of his cloaca. It looked distended somehow, it was red and swollen – no doubt from the weight bearing down on it – but after a few seconds it was changing.

The crowd let out a low hiss. Charley had covered her mouth with her hands. The guards outside her cell caught their breath in their throats.

A tiny fin was protruding from the hole in Limburger's abdomen.

The harness was lowered until the swollen belly was only centimetres from the fluid's surface. Limburger had told Charley it would be filled with a special birthing fluid, something to protect the young from the harsh atmosphere of the planet whilst they were still tiny and vulnerable.

 _Vulnerable? They don't look that vulnerable to me_.

The first of the baby fish to emerge was clearly a fighter. Its head was huge by comparison to its body, and its jaws were lined with a vicious looking set of razor-sharp teeth. Its emergence from the cloaca was accompanied by a gush of blood, and what looked like a string of pink flesh.

_Jeez... did that thing just do what I thought it did?_

In order for the fry to emerge the passage to the outside had to be widened. Those teeth it possessed had made short work of the tiny opening from the chamber, and it was no wonder Limburger was howling. His opening had been the size of a pea, but now it was having to stretch considerably. The fry emerging through it were the size of your average full-grown guinea pig.

After that pioneer into the outside world there was a few minutes of inactivity. And then it began. In one crazy, mad-cap rush, a tidal surge inside him, the fry all made a bee-line for the exit. It must have been pandemonium inside that chamber.

Limburger was screaming. The fry were popping out of him at the rate of a semi-automatic, but every so often it would stop as more than one fish tried to get out at the same time. To solve their problem the fry would simply widen the hole a little further, eating the wailing fish's tissues in their desperate desire to get free.

Now they were coming out of his two or three at a time. It was a relentless torrent of mouths, all racing to claim a space in the rapidly filling pool.

Camembert was practically dancing for his joy at the birth of his progeny. His gleeful cries were the only other sound apart from Limburger's equally loud shouts of agony.

Charley watched the birthing in horror, but she couldn't bring herself to look away. The sight of all the blood, the torn flesh, the crying man dangling above the water... the chortling beast by the podium... it made her all so sick. And so sad. She couldn't help shedding a few tears of her own.

Despite the speed at which the fry were trying to emerge, the whole birthing took nearly two hours. At the end of it the once-swollen belly was just a bag of skin, hanging as absurdly from the skeletal frame to which it was attached as the purple suit had once done before the impregnation. The tank had turned from navy blue to a deep violet froth, the blood dripping into it having coloured it, whilst the churning of the several hundred fry were responsible for all the foam.

For a long while the camera lingered on the limp form hanging over the tank. It had taken everything he had to birth his boss's offspring, and it had cost him dearly. It wasn't too clear whether or not he had even survived.

The camera moved down to film the action in the tank. The commentators voice piped up again. Apparently this wasn't the end of the spectacle.

In her cell the Earth woman had sank to the floor. She could still see the screen, but now what it was showing her truly shocked her. Not just shocked her, either, but disturbed her. She was absolutely appalled.

The presenter joined in the exchange now. He was talking about betting again. He was considering a wager over the final count.

_The final count? How vile these people are._

The commentator chipped in that the birthing tally had been three hundred and eighty-eight. He also made a passing remark as to the number of stillborns that might still be inside. Charley found herself with her head down her toilet.

She staggered back to the cell door when she had finished emptying her guts out. There was a number on the screen, and it was rapidly counting down. It was already below two hundred by the time she had returned.

She was crying again. She had never felt so distressed in her life. All of this suffering, all this pain and humiliation, and for what? So that just a handful of the newly-hatched fish could go on in life, whilst the rest became nothing more than baby food.

The tank was slowly stilling as the strongest of the fry picked off the weakest. Eventually there were only a dozen or so remaining, and they must have been equally matched. After fighting to the death with their siblings, the winners must have decided to call a truce. The commentator filled in the details with his endless knowledge of Plutarkian birthings.

It was something to do with hormones that the fish were born with. It caused them to be extremely aggressive at birth, and it lasted only for a few hours at most, depending on how much they started out with. If the fry were unlucky to be born first, and with a low level of the hormone, then they were almost certainly going to die. Those with the highest levels always made it to the end. Occasionally a few fry would hold back inside the chamber, perhaps sensing their levels were low, and wait out the storm of murderous intentions until it was safe to emerge.

The camera resumed its watch of Limburger's cloaca. There were no late emergers this time it seemed.

"Excellent, excellent – ladies and gents may I introduce you all now to my children!" Camembert was down by the foot of the tank, the news crew all following him with their microphones and cameras. He pressed his face up to the glass and made soft, crooning noises at the fish inside. They responded by gathering where his face met the interface between them. They clearly knew he was their father, not the one who had birthed them.

The crowd was raucous again. All the attention was on the high chairman now, and his much diminished brood. A female fish joined him, the mother probably, for she was smiling sweetly at the tiny, tooth-filled mouths.

The commentator continued speaking. The fry would spend the next year in a nursery pool before they were big enough to emerge from the water. After that it would be another year of an amphibious existence, before finally they would have developed a set of lungs that allowed them to be completely free of the aquatic stage. By this time they would also have legs. Right now they only had fins and a tail, and a mouth. And a gut.

Camembert no doubt would have someone else tend to his newly filled pond, but it was also clear he was the paternal type. In between his duties he would likely spend his free time doting on his piranha-like shoal. The presenter was asking the commentator if Limburger was going to be used to feed them.

Charley was back at the toilet. The thought of them tossing the deflated body of her cell mate into the pool to be ripped apart made her turn as green as her guards.

She returned to the screen again, but couldn't bear to listen to the vile, heartless discussion between the journalists, nor the proud declarations from the new parents. She put her fingers in her ears and watched the screen. The camera had panned out, and it was showing the audience who now only had eyes for the family. No one cared about the unconscious body on the platform. It was being hauled in, the harness removed, and heaved back onto the trolley on which it arrived.

For a second the woman thought she saw him move, but before she could get a good look the camera had zoomed in on the happy couple and their children once more.

_Those beasts. Those disgusting, nasty, evil beasts._

The guards were moving, and the screen was blank. They had taken liberties with their working hours to watch the show, and now it was time for them to get back on duty. Someone was opening the cell door and shoving her backwards. Charley was in such a daze from what she had just witnessed she didn't even register the push. She took her hands away from her ears and silence filled the air once more.

The plate of food in front of her looked even less appetising today. She couldn't get the image out of her head, of the swollen belly pulsing, the screaming, the blood, the hungry jaws eating their way out of him. And the defeated, broken body being hauled away as if it were trash, its job done, its usefulness passed.

Only she knew better. She wondered how long until they forced another batch of eggs inside him, how long until he had to endure another month of eating only to live to have his body eaten itself.

_I won't let them do it again. Even if it kills me too, I won't let them put him through that again._

And she wouldn't, because she had a plan. Armed with the memories they had not intended her to have, she would find a way out of here. She would find a way to get the help they needed to escape, and when she did she would make sure the kind of atrocity she had just witnessed would never, ever be repeated.


	17. The breaking of Vinnie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pit Boss has been waiting for this for a long time, and he is going to take his time to enjoy it.
> 
> Contains some pretty nasty stuff including abuse, violence and bad language. You have been warned!

When he finally came to it took a few minutes for him to realise where he was. Or where he wasn't. He wasn't on Mars fighting with his comrades against the Plutarkian invasion. He wasn't on Earth fighting with his friends against Limburger. He wasn't in the scoreboard chilling out with hot dogs, root beer, heavy metal tunes on the radio and the cheers from the stadium as the Nubs pulled through to victory. He wasn't in the Last Chance Garage with his two best bros, and his two best girls.

What he would have given to see his sleek red racer again, to feel the purr of its engine beneath him as he sped the streets of his adopted home town, and the warm legs and arms and body of the woman he cared for just as much as his bike gripping onto him.

What he would have given to have his life back. Anything, that's what. But he had little left of himself to give, and the tiny traces of his strength, his character, and his energy, they were about to be taken from him too.

Vinnie opened his eyes to the realisation that he was never going to be himself again

He couldn't actually see where he was, but he had a fair idea. There was a damp smell in the air, the kind of mustiness he had somehow come to associate with stone-walled structures and their inner chambers. He suspected he was inside the castle somewhere, somewhere in the depths of the building. The stale, unmoving air suggested a smallish room, and so probably wasn't the throne room, nor the arena.

_What is it with castles and dungeons? Isn't having a giant prison next door enough?_

Even though his eyelids had fluttered open the world around him was still dark, and from the slight pressure he felt around his sockets and at the back of his skull it must have been a blindfold that was denying him his sight. There was something else, too, another cloth woven around his head, and in his mouth.

His snout was currently tied firmly shut with what must have been the dirtiest rag in the entire underground habitation. Now that he was more alert his tongue was detecting the grime brushing against it, and his taste buds were practically being assaulted. It was  **vile**. It tasted like it had spent some time near somebody's rear end. For all he knew, it might have actually been someone's underwear.

_Oh man; don't these people ever wash?_

As the heaviness of his unconscious state began to lift he became more and more aware of himself. His head was ringing still, and he had a vague memory of someone having hit him repeatedly on the head. There wasn't much after that, just blackness for a while, then blurred faces. Someone was lifting his heavy lids and flashing a light into his eyes, and muffled voices following him around whilst gloved hands continued to examine his limp body.

He had the sensation of being bathed, the slightest whiff of antiseptic, and the sharp sting of pain as his wounds were treated.

_Why did they bother? I'm dead meat anyway._

It must have only been a quick fix though, because he was very much aware of the open wounds across his back that most definitely had not been stitched. The sensation of his skin stretching around the cuts was all the more pronounced than normal, he thought. It slowly dawned on him that the pressure on his wrists was also not what he had become accustomed to. He wasn't chained up on all-fours. He was chained by his wrists and dangling freely, but after trying to kick out he realised his ankles were also still shackled, this time to the floor.

For some reason he felt more vulnerable in this position than he ever had done with his body horizontal. It probably had something to do with his front being exposed. Any soft-bellied organism would feel the same way if their weakest point was open to attack.

He gave a muffled groan from behind his gag; the pain in his head from being knocked out, plus the cuts on his body, and the strain on his shoulders, were fairly hard to ignore right now.

"So you are awake, at last. Another day and I might have given up on you."

The Pit Boss's implication was all too plain. If he hadn't woken up today he would never have awoken again. It might have been better that way too, because he knew that what was coming was going to be far worse than death.

The memory of the guard striking his friend, the blur that followed, the metallic taste in his mouth, and the dying scream as he choked the man to death in his jaws, it all flashed across his mind in a brutal reminder of his fate. He knew he had snapped, lost control of himself for a few minutes, and made probably the worst mistake in his entire life. He knew he was going to be punished dearly for it too.

"I think it's about time we had a little chat, don't you?"

He was right beside him, breathing his tainted breath right into his face. It smelled so bad, that mouth, a dentist's nightmare for sure. It was a wonder the man had any teeth left his jaw was in such an unkempt state.

All Vinnie could do was growl, and the subdued rumble from his throat made the rank-smelling villain at his side laugh. "Something to say, rat? Here, let me help you."

The cloth was untied and the gag was pulled free from between his teeth. After spitting a few times to rid himself of the traces of filth in his mouth (though it could hardly be called spitting since he was low on saliva), Vinnie cleared his parched throat and puffed up his chest.

"What is it you want with me, Pit Breath?" It wasn't so much of a yell as a hoarse hiss, but with having not had a drink for several days it was quite an effort to speak at all. "Why don't you go find someone else to shine your shoes for you?  Or better still, give you a thorough hose down, you reeking lump of lard."

The man chuckled. Even after all this time the kid still had spunk. "My, my, what strong opinions you have my dear little rat-boy. Considering. No, I think I will stick with having that worthless piece of crap you seem to look up to keeping my footwear in order, thank you very much."

_You forgot the part about the shower. Dirt bag._

"So what is it you want? Why don't you just let us go, all of us, and go find yourself a day job like any  _normal_  person?!"

"Hmm... nope, sorry. Been there, done that. Didn't work out too well, though not really for me."

"What is it you want then, huh? What do you want? What do you want from me?!" Vinnie really was yelling now, and it felt like a flame had been lit in his throat it burned so much. The Pit Boss seemed to be enjoying seeing him rant, and stood there smirking whilst the dangling Martian let it all out.

"Quite finished?" He finally spoke when the mouse ran out of voice. His captive was breathing heavily at his efforts to shout the place down, but still had his teeth bared.  _He never gives up the fight does he? But he will. I will make sure of that._

"So, you want to know why you're here, do you? It's quite simple, and I have already told you but you must have forgotten. You are my slave, my prisoner. I own you. All of you. And as it seems you need reminding of this, I am making time to educate you in your place in my kingdom."

"Educate me?"  _Your kingdom!_  "Is that what you call this?"

"Yes. It's something i'm very good at too. Did you know I used to be a teacher? I was one of the best, top of my class. I had the lowest truancy rates, the highest attendance. My pupils were the best behaved in the entire school. Do you know why that was, rat?"

Vinnie had a fair idea. The man had disciplinarian written all over him.

"It's just a pity the governors decided against corporal punishment. And those snot-rags knew it too, though it was only that one who had the guts to go running home to tell his parents."

 _Jeez. I hate to think why_.

"And so you thought you would set up a school underground? For low-lives like you? Figures."

"No, my boy, for low-lives like  _you_." The Pit Boss gave him a stern look, and though unseeing Vinnie could tell why he had lost his school-based career.

"Well i'm not interested in enrolling. Now let me go or i'll..."

"Or you'll what? Haven't we been through this already, rat? The only thing you'll be doing is exactly what I tell you, and the sooner you get that into your thick skull the better."

Baring his teeth again, the white mouse countered. " _Never_. I'll never do what you want, even if it kills me."

"Oh I wouldn't be thinking like that. You will do what I want, because if you don't it'll be your friend's lives on the line, not yours. Understand?"

The growl in his throat died. He had forgotten about his bros.

"Good. Now that I have your attention... This is what you will be learning. Number one, and I really hate to repeat myself so you better learn this quick. You belong to me, you are my property, and you do what I want, when I want. Number two. You are an animal, not a person. Animals _don't talk_. Neither will you, not unless I want you to. Number three, and this is the most important so pay attention. I may have been lenient on you so far, but believe me, if you dare disobey me again you will be punished in the most severe way possible."

He stepped to the mouse's front and grabbed hold of his snout. "Do you understand, rat?"

Vinnie hissed, wishing his mouth wasn't so dry so that he could spit in his face.

"Speak. Now. Do you understand?"

"Go fuck yourself, pit breath."

The Pit Boss let his head drop, and pulled the radio from his belt. "I'm ready for you now."

The mouse had a fair idea it wasn't the wisest of things to refuse to comply to the terms of his lesson, but whilst the rage still blazed inside it was difficult to not defy him. He felt sure his bros would understand. What could be worse that what they were already going through? If the Pit Boss killed them it might be a mercy, even if it was a slow death.

In minutes the room filled with the stench of several bodies. Someone was stood behind him, and he felt the skin on his nape tighten as the hand grabbed hold of his scruff. He wasn't sure if they knew of the effect this would have, but as his body went limp he knew he was in trouble. He could hear the sound of electric clippers, and for the first time since his incarceration his body was shorn to the skin.

It really hurt too. They passed the blades over every part of him, starting with his left thigh, and moving elsewhere to reach every nook and cranny. The branding scar had finally healed enough for some fur to cover it, and Vinnie was surprised the Pit Boss had let it stay hidden for so long. The worst part was them shaving his back and legs, where the majority of the whip-lashes had landed, but it was quite unpleasant having his whiskers cut off too.

They even lifted his tail and parted his legs to reach his more intimate corners. He couldn't help the gasp escape his mouth as the clippers passed over his fur-covered sheath and scrotum. Now he knew exactly how his bros had felt that first day down here. It was so demeaning to be this naked he felt his face flush scarlet with shame.

The men must have noticed how little he fought them, because whoever was holding his scruff did not release him when the shaving was done. Not until something else happened.

"This one's just temporary? To give him a chance to learn by himself. If he doesn't..."

"Yes sir, there are other options as we discussed."

It was the welder's voice. Vinnie hadn't been able to pick out his odour amongst the overwhelming stench of the other goons.

"Excellent. Put it on him then."

Vinnie felt something slipping over his snout, and he knew it wasn't the cloth gag from earlier. It was metallic, cold and heavy, and rigid. It went all around his mouth, stopping at the base of his snout, and from it were leather straps that were being pulled over his head, digging into his cheeks and forehead and chin. He felt the buckles pressing sharply into the back of his skull as it was tightened, and winced as they pinched viciously at his skin.

After that his neck was released, and he felt his nervous system free from its paralysis. The first thing he did was reach up with his tail to inspect this newest piece of headwear he was adorned with.

_Holy crap. What the hell is this thing?_

It felt like a small cage had just been placed around his face. He could still open his mouth, he could still breathe, but there was no way anything else was getting in, nor out.

"What do you think, rat? You know when an animal is thought to be too dangerous to be trusted, i'm thinking of dogs here, do you know what we do to them? This. You're wearing a muzzle. And you will be wearing it until we decide you're not dangerous anymore."

Vinnie growled, which only gave credence to the necessity of the thing. He  _was_  dangerous, and they weren't stupid enough to give him another chance to attack them.

"Take it off and i'll show you what dangerous really means, blubber butt."

His face was grabbed again. "Oh and if you don't learn lesson number two I will have to find a way to deal with that as well." The Pit Boss turned to the slight-framed man who had not yet been dismissed. "Do you want to cut out his tongue, or shall I leave it to the doc?"

The mouse's heart skipped a beat, much like it did when they threatened to deal with his tail.

"Better leave it to the doc, Sir. But there are... alternatives..."

"I'll be sure to ask you about those when the time comes. Flint?"

"Yeah boss."

"Is everyone in their prison cells like I ordered?"

"Yeah, boss. Them rats are caged too, just as you wanted."

"Excellent. And this one's new... home?"

"All ready, boss."

_New home? What does that mean?_

"Just temporary, my dear rat. Just until you learn your lesson. Then I might consider letting you have your old one back. If you're really, really good that is. If not..."

The Pit Boss turned to his number one goon, a querying look on his face.

"Yeah boss, that's ready too."

"Excellent. One last thing before we get you back outside."

It wasn't just one last thing. Vinnie felt strong hands around the base of his tail, and though at first he assumed it must be Flint, the smell of burnt coal and soot told him otherwise. The welder was tightening something around the base of the shorn, muscular appendage, and then he felt pressure on his back end as it was lifted upwards. He heard the sound of metal upon metal, and something clipping onto the ring by the buckles behind his head. From what he could tell, his tail had just been tied to his muzzle.

_Uh oh._

Then the manacles around his wrists were released, and as he dropped he felt the mass of several men on top of him, and his hands and feet were once again joined by the specialised shackles. He cringed as the heavy iron collar was locked once more around his neck, and its substantial weight had it rubbing against his scapula and his spine causing him to groan loudly. He really hated that thing.

They had left him blindfolded, and as the leash was tugged he could only move forwards and pray he didn't stumble. He was sure that they wouldn't show him any mercy if he fell, even though it wasn't his fault he couldn't see where his feet were stepping.

The walk through the castle seemed to go on forever. The steps were the worst; he must have tripped on almost every one as he struggled to place himself. It was a relief they were leading him upwards, because going  _down_  steps would almost certainly end up with him in a bloodied heap at the bottom.

After what must have been only a few minutes, though it felt like hours, the change in air current told him he was outside of the castle doors. It was very quiet, except for the odd snigger following him as he walked. He knew from the texture beneath his feet that he was being led towards the prison yard, and when he detected the change from cold rock to crumbled stone and dirt, he had little doubt he was there. Right in the middle. As he had come into view of the prison cells he heard what must have been over a hundred gasps. The slaves were watching him being led to where they could all see him. And that included his two bros.

Vinnie sensed their reactions as he passed by. Both of them were anxious, rather than horrified. Nothing too terrible had been done to him... yet... though he could also detect a trace of disgust. It probably had something to do with the thing his tail was attached so unceremoniously to.

"I hear on the outside you think yourself as some kind of hot shot. Some kind of lady killer, ain't that right boys?"

Several of the pit crew were laughing. Vinnie's cheeks reddened.

"Well, pretty boy, don't be shy now. Let everyone here get a good look at you. Better get used to it, I don't think you're going to be able to escape their attention now."

The Pit Boss guffawed as Vinnie found himself being tethered. Two chains were being clipped to the small catch on his collar, and pulled out either side of him. He then felt his back legs being straightened out, splayed as far as the chain would allow, and two spikes being driven through the metal links beside each foot.

"You seem to think you're so good that the rules don't apply to you. But we all know what happens to slaves who don't follow the rules, don't we?"

It was no use. Between the taut chain holding his head, and the spikes holding his feet, he could hardly move.

"Well, don't we?"

The Pit Boss was addressing him now, but he wasn't giving him the satisfaction of a response.

"Oh so now you decide to shut up." The Pit Boss raised his arm and brought the electrified whip across the mouse's back, making him yelp shrilly at the pain. He expected further blows, and so braced himself for more, but they didn't come. Instead something worse did.

The feeling was familiar, but this time he knew it wasn't for his benefit. The tube inside him was rammed in deep, and the huge volume of fluid collecting inside his gut made him ache dreadfully. He didn't try to hold it, the stuff was leaking out of him almost as fast as it went in, but he felt the bucket pressed between his legs, and heard the sound of the enema as it was collected in it in gushing spurts.

Once he was empty, the tube disappeared and was replaced by fingers.

_Don't know why he bothered to clean me out, his fingers are dirtier than I am._

The only sound in the yard was his own moans now. Every single slave and goon was watching him in absolute silence as he was humiliated.

The Pit Boss was stood right behind him, and he could feel him pressing up hard against his back end. His heart was racing. It was bad enough having been raped by the brute that was Flint in the relative privacy of the workshop, but the looming possibility of the act against him being performed so publicly really did make him squirm.

He could feel the huge gut of the man pressing on him as he leant forward. "Dirty little rat, you're still not clean."

The memory of fingers inside a grey-furred mouth flashed across his mind, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. The Pit Boss wasn't dumb enough to stick part of his body near his teeth.

Throttle and Modo also had similar thoughts, as their large ears had detected the whisper in their bro's ear. They looked at the mouse on display and bit their lips, waiting. What happened next was even worse than what they imagined. It was so foul the pair of them were retching in their cages as they shared the stomach churning sensations with their bro. By the time the Pit Boss had finished with him, Vinnie was vomiting and crying pitifully, and the air was filled with the gleeful giggles of the pit crew as they watched the helpless mouse react to his punishment.

Vinnie hadn't exactly been raped, though it was debatable. The Pit Boss had certainly violated him, for around twenty seconds or so, and he hadn't moved at all until he pulled out. As he did, the bucket was swiftly returned to its original position, just in time to catch the torrent of yellow fluid escaping from the mouse's rectum.

At the same time this was happening, as in whilst the mouse was distracted by what was happening to his back end, someone else had stepped forward and threaded a long, clear tube through the muzzle's mesh and into Vinnie's mouth. The mouse didn't have a chance. His jaw had opened in surprise as he felt the pressure inside him, and now the tube was firmly down his gullet. It happened to fast he hadn't even gagged.

"Aaarghnnnphhf!"

The someone at his head looked older, and cleaner, than the rest of the men down here. His general appearance, the glasses on his nose, the grey hair on his head, even his clothing (which was more formal, and less shabby than the pit crew) spoke volumes about who he was. This was the doc. The Pit Doctor. And he kept tight hold of the tube and Vinnie's head so that he couldn't dislodge it.

_Oh no... oh no, please... not that._

Though he couldn't see, he knew what was coming. And so did everyone watching. Half of the slaves had turned green, though most of the pit crew were cheering. The Pit Boss was filling a large syringe with the contents of the bucket.

_Noooooo..._

The only good thing was that he couldn't actually taste it. At least not until his protesting stomach forced it back out again. But every time he vomited the tube somehow managed to find its way back down, and he was given another dose of his master's wastes that were mixed with his own. And another. And another.

Eventually the bucket was empty, and Vinnie was shaking with exhaustion and pain as his guts heaved and complained.

"Get used to it, rat, because that's all you're eating until you answer me like I want you to."

And with that the Pit Boss stood up, handing the syringe to the doctor, and marched away back to his castle.

Suddenly noise filled the yard as the guards resumed their normal routine. It was only the middle of the day, and there was still work to be done as far as they were concerned.

Vinnie stood there, his stomach cramping, his back-end spasming, his mouth flooded with vomit, wastes, and saliva, and his muzzled face sodden with tears. As the procession of slaves passed him by he could hear them muttering under their breaths at him. Some were sympathetic. Many just quizzical, in awe, or in shock. The majority said only one thing, and it hurt him worse than the punishment itself.  _Serves you right_.

He couldn't believe the slaves would even think it, but then they had spent years down here doing everything they could to not be punished, and suffering for it. And they had seen the white mouse go for months without barely more than a few whiplashes, getting away with minor infractions that others would be seriously beaten for. In their eyes, the Pit Boss was right. This mouse did think he was above the rules. And it was about time he learned he wasn't.

As his bros passed him by, it disheartened him to feel the same aura from them. They didn't say anything – they didn't dare – but he could almost hear their thoughts. They knew it would happen, and they had tried to tell him to keep his cool. But he hadn't and now he was paying for it. Whilst they didn't exactly think he deserved it, they couldn't hide the slight hint of 'I told you so' in their feelings towards him.

For three days he stood there. Everything that came out of his back end was collected in the bucket between his legs, and frequently added to by passing guards, and twice a day its contents were syringed down the mouse's throat. Despite the rottenness of the mix, his stomach was so hammered after the first round that he wasn't physically able to regurgitate it. The tube also stayed firmly in his gut. The doctor had taped it securely in place where it passed through the metal muzzle.

The lack of fur meant these were the coldest three days he had ever spent in the Pits. He couldn't curl up, he couldn't lie down; he just had to stand there, shivering, and wondering if he would freeze to death in the night. He didn't. If they had decided to hose him down to rid the place of the stench wafting from him, he probably would have perished.

By the end of the third day he was so drained, and so dehydrated, he could not stand there any longer. He almost strangled himself when he collapsed, and it was only by chance there was even anyone around to notice.

He spent over two weeks in one of the dungeon cells whilst he recovered. He wasn't given anything more than a fluid drip, not even a blanket, nor straw, nor anything to relieve him from the fever he was wracked with. They didn't even remove the muzzle, or the blindfold.

Somehow he managed to get over the sickness, but there was no let up in his punishment. As soon as he could stand he was led back outside, and tethered once more in the centre of the prison yard.

For the next week he spent his nights chained in the yard in full view of the other slaves. By day he was expected to get back to work. They had removed his blindfold by now, yet he found himself being whipped mercilessly as he fell time and time again, the lack of food and the illness having taken its toll on him. The guards must have had orders to not kill him, though, because each night he would return to the prison and have to face what lay in store for him.

They had placed a crate in front of where he stood, and on top of it were two bowls. One contained water, thankfully, but the other...

They told him he wasn't allowed any water until the other bowl was empty. Through the rivers of tears, and between choking sobs, somehow he managed to lap up the liquidised mess through his cage-like muzzle. He had no idea how he managed to keep it down, for he could taste every horrific mouthful. His stomach felt like he had been kicked by a horse. And the bucket had returned between his legs.

The bowl of water would be drained in seconds, but it was never enough to wash out his mouth. Sometimes the guards would tease him by taking it away when the first bowl was empty, and upon seeing him beg desperately for the dish they would return it. Vinnie had never felt so humiliated in all his life. He knew better than to refuse to eat, though, because one of them would be holding the tube and the syringe just in case he tried.

At the end of the week he was called to the Pit Boss's chambers, and taken out of line on his way back to the prison. He could sense what his bros were thinking as he was led away.

_Do as you're told. You can't live like this, it's not worth it._

Even his friends had given up on him. On themselves too, it seemed. They didn't want him to fight for them any longer. They had accepted they were stuck here, and they wanted him to do the same.

As the guard pulled him forwards he let his head droop down. This was it. They were right. He was too weak to fight anymore, and they were too strong. He had acted too soon, and now it was too late to take it back.

Vinnie couldn't help thinking about the day they had been captured. If only he had been able to stop it. If only his bros hadn't stood there and done nothing. If only he hadn't lost Charley, then they wouldn't have gone back down into the tunnels. If only.

 _Oh Charley-girl i'm so glad you can't see me now. You wouldn't know me anymore; no one would_.

He felt the warm, salty tear drip from the tip of his nose. He only managed the one, he was still too dehydrated to spare any more water from his body. But the anguish he felt inside more than made up for it.

This was his first visit to the arena, yet he felt so familiar with it he could have been here a dozen times. And he had, through Modo's experiences. He knew he would be chained at the foot of the throne, and he knew the Pit Boss would sit there in front and decide what was to be done with him.

"Look who it is, it's my little disobedient rat. Shall we see if you have learnt anything yet, slave?"

Vinnie didn't look up. He didn't dare.

"Right, a little quiz to see if you remember what I taught you, and whether or not it sunk in. Tell me what you are, and if you answer correctly we won't have to go over lesson number three. Go."

He took a deep breath. He had two choices. Either he gave the man what he wanted, or he took a chance by denying him it. For some this might have been an easy decision, but for him it was the hardest choice he ever had to make. It wasn't in his nature to just give up. It wasn't in him to turn away from danger. But then it dawned in him that this wasn't like anything he had ever faced before. There was no back-up plan. No escape route, no rescue. There was no one out there who might arrive in the nick of time to save him from the outcome of his recklessness. There was nothing but him standing in the way of a life with no freedom, or no life at all. He would gladly choose the latter, but it would gain nothing. His friends would still be trapped here, and they might suffer worse without him.

"I'm... i'm..."  _I'm not your slave, i'm a Martian mouse, a freedom fighter, a person... and you are a monster._ "...an animal."

"You're an animal... what?"

His body had found reserves of fluid somewhere. His nose tingled with the sensation of moistness, though his mouth was dry.

"I'm an animal... m-m-m"

"Go on... say it. Say it and this will all be over." The Pit Boss was leaning forward in his chair, his hands stroking his ever-present yellow whip.

"Pleeease... don't hurt me...  _pleeease._..." He was sobbing now, and his legs were trembling so violently they were barely able to support him.

"Say it, and I might not hurt you today. Go on.  _Say it_."

"..."

"SAY IT NOW!"

The lash across his back loosened his tongue. He couldn't cope with another beating.

"M...m-m-m-m... m-master..." He practically choked as the word finally made it past his lips.

"Good boy. Now then, from this point onwards you will only speak when I say so, and that includes whispering to your little friends. Don't think I don't know about that. And you will do everything I tell you without question. Got it?"

"Y-y-yes... master..." Vinnie nodded fervently as he spoke. He had crossed the line now, he had given in, and there was no turning back. But he was terrified of what it meant.

"You will eat when and what I tell you, you will piss and shit when I tell you, you will sleep when I tell you. From now on you don't do anything without my say so, or my crew. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes... master..." His future was rapidly going downhill.

"Good. Now open your mouth."

_Huh?_

His muzzle was already being unlocked and pulled from his head, and his tail was released from its tether. The goon who did it quickly stepped back, keeping himself out of reach of the sharp teeth in the freed jaw. Just in case.

The thought of being forced to consume anymore human wastes nearly made him change his mind about obeying, but the look the man was giving him was enough to quell another rebellion. He opened his mouth, and waited.

The doctor was approaching him from the side of the room, and he had what looked like a briefcase in his grasp. He knelt down by the white mouse and opened his bag, and fumbled around inside for a while.

Vinnie stood there wondering what he was going to do. The man began poking around inside his mouth, pressing something onto his tongue, rubbing something over his teeth.

Next minute something was being pushed inside his mouth and strapped over his head. It was a bit like the halter that he had been forced to wear twice before, but instead of clamping his mouth shut, it held it wide open.

The doctor was reaching into his bag again, and produced something really quite scary. It looked like a giant nail file.

With one hand holding the halter, he pushed the file inside Vinnie mouth and drew it backwards and forwards over his teeth. It didn't hurt, much, but the sensations of his enamel being worn away was downright nasty. The gargled whine coming from his throat made the Pit Boss smile.

"Are you sure that's safe, doc?"

"Uh-huh. If he really is a rodent his teeth'll just grow back anyway. They look like they need a filing down."

Vinnie wanted to tell the men he wasn't like Earth rodents, and that his teeth didn't need something to gnaw on to keep them in good shape. He could only hope his teeth would recover from being ground away to nothing.

A liquid was sprayed into his mouth to wash away the dust, and for a second the mouse felt a stab of pain in his jaw. The doctor had done a thorough job.

His eyes widened when he saw the tube being pulled from the bag. It was clean, at least, and new from a packet. Not the same one he had had shoved down his throat last time.

"I thought the tube was meant to go down the nose?"

"It is."

"But his mouth?"

"If you're going to sew it shut I had to give it a once over first."

_Sew it shut? Nooo... they can't be serious!_

"Right. I thought Wes was going to do the honours?"

"He was?  He made the jaw clamp for me..."

It was little consolation that the welder had bowed out of the occasion in favour of the more skilled hands of the medical practitioner (assuming he even was a qualified doctor). Vinnie whimpered fearfully, wishing his mouth was free, wishing he had never bitten anyone.

The doctor left the clamp on whilst he threaded this new tube into one of the mouse's little nostrils and down his throat into his stomach. Without any form of anaesthetic this was an excruciating experience, and his eyes watered as his sinuses were forcefully invaded by the plastic.

He sincerely hoped he passed out before the doc worked on his mouth. He got lucky, kind of. The needle stick in his arm delivered him a low dose of sedative, which whilst not enough to knock him out, did at least numb him.

As he slumped down to the floor he felt the hands of the guards around his body. The clamp was being removed, his lower jaw pushed up to meet the upper, and his whole head held firmly still in someone's hands. Big hands. He could just make out the auburn beard on the man's face as it hovered above him. Flint wanted to get a close up of the action apparently.

The head goon was grinning, and bent down to speak into the large, twitching lobe resting on his knee. "I told you I would get my way. This time it's going to be permanent, and dear old Wes is going to wish he had done as I asked, as will you."

Vinnie couldn't respond, the drugs had worked quickly on his weakened body. He lay there with his fogged mind trying to make sense of what was happening to him. He could see the large needle and the thick, black thread, and the doctor's hands that held it reaching down to him. He could feel the sharp prick as it pushed into his lips, and the strange sensation of the cord pulling through. A part of his brain was telling him to fight, but he really couldn't. He lay there and let it happen. And he could feel every single stitch. It hurt like hell even under sedation, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

When the doctor had finished the mouse was hauled to his feet and held upright by Flint, who supported him whilst the mild sedative still lingered in his system.

"Excellent work doc, come by later for a drink?"

"Sure thing, boss. You might want to tie his mouth for a few days, just until he get used to the sutures. Unless you want him ripping them open."

"No I suppose we don't want that. Flint, do the honours."

The doctor left and the goon found something to tie around his snout. It wasn't necessary, there was nothing that would persuade the mouse to even try to open his mouth. Not now.

"Now then. Where were we? Oh yes, the lesson. Are you listening, slave?"

It wasn't easy to focus, the sedative still had a hold over his body and he could barely lift his head. He just about managed something weakly resembling a nod.

"Lesson number three. If you should even think about disobeying me again, you know what will happen. And not just to you, either. You love your furry friends, don't you little rat?"

Vinnie nodded, his heart fluttering.

"You don't want them to end up like you, do you?"

He shook his head. He wouldn't wish this on anyone.

"You'll do as you told from now on, won't you?"

He nodded again, his face miserable. The Pit Boss would no doubt take full advantage of his complete submission.

"Good boy. Now then, let's take you to your new home, shall we? Give you time to settle in."

This didn't sound good at all. He wondered what could be worse than a tiny cage he had spent most of his time in, or being tethered in the yard, or locked in the dungeon.

When he saw it he knew. He must have passed it a hundred times and never even noticed. But now, stood in front of it, it was obvious that no one would ever walk by it without staring again.

It was, or so he guessed, an access panel into the Pit's sanitation system. It certainly smelt like it.

There was a recess in the wall at the edge of the mine. Inside this there was a mesh panel floor, which was screwed down but could be lifted if needed. The entrance to the recess had a barred door, and this was opened so that he could be shoved inside. It was just big enough for him to stand in.

He felt the tube from his nose being pulled slightly as it was threaded to the outside and secured. It had been stuck quite firmly in his nostril, so he wasn't likely to pull it free. But to be on the safe side his neck chain was also secured to the wall, so that he couldn't move too far anyway.

The door was locked, and he stood there, the fumes coming from below him making him feel sick. Vomiting now would probably choke him, so he did everything he could to keep his guts calm. The only thing he could do was turn to his left and poke his nose through the bars, trying desperately to inhale the fresher air outside.

"That's right, this is your new home now. It's fitting for someone like you. Filthy scum. You like being the centre of attention, and though I would have loved to keep you in the prison yard i'm afraid that was far too cushy. As was your cage. But don't worry, you'll still get plenty of people staring at you as they walk by. If you're really good I might let you out to work in the mine. Otherwise..."

_They're leaving me in here? For how long? Oh god, don't leave me in here!_

"Mmmph!"

"Shhh, now. It's not that bad. It's definitely warmer... though probably not in a good way."

"Mmmmph!"

They were all laughing. He wasn't sure why. Then he knew.

This wasn't just an access panel. This was an overflow. And everyone in the Pits knew just how bad the drains were in this place.

"I'll tell you what, i'll let you decide when you want to take a leak, or a dump, at least whilst you're in there."

The Pit Boss turned to his cronies with a sly smile on his face. "Give him a month, maybe two. I think one feed a day will be enough. Doc will see he gets the medicine he needs."

_Nooooooooooo! Pleeeeeease!_

Vinnie was crying so hard he was struggling to breath. His single open nostril was filling with mucus, and he had no way of getting air into his lungs. He had to bring himself under control. He took a deep sniff, inhaling the plug and the fetid air around him.

"MMMMmmmmmmmmmppphhhh!"

The men were walking away. They couldn't hear his muffled cries anymore.

The tears just kept rolling off his face. His head ached with dehydration. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. This was no doubt the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He wondered if he would even last one month, let alone two. A part of him wished he could die right then. He couldn't bear to see the look on his bros faces when they passed him. He didn't want to feel their pity, nor their derision, when they saw how he had been punished. He didn't want them to curl their lips in disgust when they smelt him. And he knew he would smell bad.

He could hear a gurgling in the pipe-work above him. Someone, somewhere, was just about to add to his misery. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced when it came. Now he knew why he was going to need medicine. The overflow was directly above his broken body.


	18. Connection

_I'm almost there... almost... just have to reach out... damn. Missed again. Why is this so hard? Why... oh. Really? Hmph. Come on girl we can do it. Just a little closer. Just... no wait, argh. Ok, maybe later. Now what? Him again? Is he some kind of perve or what? Oh. Right. Another attack. Back to general mode. Boring. Oh wait, not boring. Did he just say? My head hurts. Everything's so fuzzy today. Charley? Did he just call me Charley? Maybe..._

"Charley?"

"Huh?"

_Dammit, I really thought I had it this time._

"Charley? Are you awake?"

"Urgh. Guess I am, now. Why did you wake me? You don't normally; are you ok?"

Rubbing her stinging eyes the Earth woman resigned herself to resuming her real life, and not the dream one which she had become somewhat obsessed with lately. She lowered her feet to the floor and grasped the edge of the cot for a few minutes, steadying herself before attempting to stand. The only trouble with sleeping for so long was that her body did not like the waking up part one bit. It was as if her muscles were atrophying from being inactive for so long, and that coupled with the persistent headache made her want to stay horizontal all the more.

"I'm ok. I thought you were awake, you were talking. I'm sorry."

It had been nearly three weeks since the live broadcast of the birthing, and despite having looked like he had been finished off by the macabre spectacle, Limburger had finally returned to his cell in one piece. Just about. He still looked pretty sickly; his face was still thin and drawn, and pale, and his limbs were still skeletal and frail. The enormous belly was now a huge tent of skin, empty of any life now but not yet how it once was. This would take a long time, if allowed, which they seriously doubted would be. For the meanwhile a sort of girdle had been strapped around the fish's midriff, a sling to support the loose skin whilst the internal damage healed.

Limburger didn't know how long exactly they would give for his body to recover, but considering whose offspring it was being left in his care it was probably likely to be a while. The High Chairman couldn't very well have his progeny implanted in someone who was on death's door. So, for now at least, the Plutarkian from Earth was being given a break from his tortures, and in addition being fed as much food as he desired to get him back up to brooding weight.

Not that he wanted to return to this state. The thought of going through another month of hell was not only unwelcome but distinctly unappealing. He would rather die, and he had made quite sure his neighbour knew that.

"It's alright; I thought I was getting somewhere, but I guess I wasn't."

Charley groaned as she finally placed some weight on her weakened lower limbs. She knew she had to exercise, though, because if she didn't then she wouldn't be in any state to execute any kind of escape plan should the time ever arise for her to do so. She was hoping her forays into her bizarre out-of-body experiences would prove fruitful, alas so far she had had little success. If anything the clarity of her memories and visions was becoming worse. She knew she was running out of time. They would realise what she was up to, eventually, and put a stop to it; or else she would complete whatever the task was she was meant for, and the opportunity to reach out for help would be rescinded.

But for now she had to keep trying. At both getting her body into shape, and her mind.

"Belle didn't spend much time in front of the mirror. I guess the beast is keeping it from her."

Having exhausted all possible ways to use poker as a cover for their discussions, they had changed to fairy tales as the metaphorical description of Charley's dreams. As Limburger had spent plenty of time on Earth, including a stint trapped in a world created from the woman's birthday present, a book of her favourite children's stories, he was quite adept in his knowledge of such things. Besides, sticking with card game analogies was bound to raise suspicion in their guards some day.

"Or maybe it was the wicked step-sisters."

"That's Cinderella."

"Oh right. Silly me." The fish smirked. Human fairy tales were weird, he thought, but not even a patch on the odd stuff his own kind created for their youngster's pleasure.

The mirror had become an integral part of Charley's plan to make contact with her alter ego. That day when she had first seen herself, having willed her Martian body to stare into it (or so she hoped), she had been trying to use it as a focal point to make some sort of connection. A bridge or sorts. But it wasn't easy; apparently the mouse general was not a fan of her reflection, and spent very little time sat at the dresser. Other than when she was upset, and at those times her vision was all blurred out by tears. This, Charley noticed, was a frequent thing, and correlated well with failed missions that she was supposed to be in charge of.

_I still don't get why she...I mean I... gets so upset. If i'm the mole then I should be happy. Unless this is all part of the cover? For when he shows up._

By 'he' she meant the rat called Frost, her second in command on the mysterious base from which she operated. He would frequently come to console her in the aftermath of botched missions. Charley suspected their relationship stretched a little further than military rank and file.

"You should eat, you know. That food's all for you now, no point in wasting it."

The fish glared at her for a moment, and then shrugged, and nodded. His face softened into an almost sad smile.  _She really does care about me. I don't know how we got here, but i'm glad of it, I really am._

"I know" he whispered, picking up one of the many plates of Plutarkian fare that had been left for him. "It's just... hard. I..."

"Yeah. I know. But Cinderella has to do her chores too, or else the prince won't come."

He grimaced. He really hoped the woman figured something out before the fairy tales became ghost stories. Not that fairy tales were nice, either.  _At least Cinders didn't have to get pregnant with several hundred flesh-eating monsters. Lucky bitch._

For the rest of the evening the woman and her scale-covered neighbour made idle chatter whilst they each took care of their necessities. He munched his way slowly through the mountain of bugs he was expected to eat, and she took herself though an exercise programme she had devised for herself.  _Jane Fonda eat your heart out._ At first she had found even just the stretches exhausting, but in time it had become a little easier. And they motivated each other, her and the fish, for they both knew their lives depended on getting back in shape.

"Man i'm beat. Calling it a day. You mind?"

Limburger still had another plate to go, and didn't look like he wanted to do it alone. "Sure... you need sleep."

Detecting in his voice that he didn't really mean what he just said, she sighed and walked over to the bars by his bunk. "Here. What I need is eats. Care to share?"

The fish was surprised. Not only did the woman want to eat the 'gross' stuff his kind favoured, but she was actually offering to help him out. "Err, right. Help yourself. Please." He placed the entire plate in the slender hands she had pushed through his bars, and as she couldn't get it through to her cell without spilling its contents, she used her fingers and scooped the food straight into her mouth.

"Thanks. Good night then?"

"Yeah, good night."

Before she could withdraw her hands he had taken hold of them, and squeezed them gently in his own gloved mitts. He gave her a look, a strange one. It was hard to tell exactly what it was; that rubber mask was back on his head and still hung loose enough to obscure his expressions.

Charley gave him a small smile, but didn't pull away. She waited patiently for him to release her.  _He needs me more than he cares to admit. And somehow I think I need him too._

After months of incarceration the woman felt that same innate desire for bodily contact that anyone who had been denied it for so long would experience. It wasn't like she had  _feeling_ s for the fish, not those kind anyway, and she knew he didn't either for her. But it was a moment, a shared moment, the kind where two people knew when they were in something together to the very end.

"Charley..."

"It's ok. You'll be ok. We both will. I promise."

"Thank you." He lowered his face slightly and pulled her hands upwards to meet his rubber-covered lips, connecting them briefly, before letting her go.

The Earth woman returned to her bunk feeling somewhat dazed. Never in her whole life had she imagined this would happen. It was the strangest thing, and yet it didn't scare her, nor disgust her. Even if he returned to his old ways once they were free it wouldn't matter. A connection, no matter how light, how brief, or how  _unconventional_ , was still a connection. And if she could forge such a bridge between her and one of her most detested enemies, then surely, somehow, she could make one with herself.

Or with her other self. The woman in the mirror. The Martian mouse, the green-eyed general who cried for the losses she herself had been responsible for. If Charley could only reach her as she had reached the purple-suited fish next door, then there was hope. There was a way out. And she would do everything,  _anything_ , within her power to make that happen.


	19. In my hands

Today had been a long day. Lying back on her bunk to take the weight off her lower body was the only relief she had from the daily ache that encumbered her. Not that pain bothered her much, not physical pain. She was used to it. She had to be. But as for the other kind of pain, the one in her heart, how could she ignore it? Sure, it could be suppressed for a time, but the longer she held it back the harder it erupted when she finally did let go.

And this evening it had really, really come out with force. An eruption. A weaker mouse might not have been able to pick themselves up after such a flood of emotion, but then she was no waif, no withering flower. That hard-faced persona she had to present to her comrades day after day, the one that most admired or respected, yet some clearly despised, it was necessary, and useful. She was in command and now, especially now, she had to be seen to be in complete control.

If anyone knew just how quickly she fell to pieces once she left the room; it didn't bear thinking about. The alliance was fragile enough as it was without them losing confidence in her too. They already questioned most of her more _extreme_ decisions. But needs must, she thought, if we are to ever get anywhere in this goddamn war.

The mouse ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. It still felt tacky. She knew that right now a hot shower would do the world of good for her troubled body, but the best the base could offer was some kind of chemical mist, followed by a sort of vacuum cleaner type device to remove the dirt and soap. It did the job, but it wasn't exactly what you would call refreshing.

_Oh man. What I would give to be on a planet with water. Clean water. Not the toxic crap those fish bathe in._

Whilst Plutark had the monopoly on all things aqua in this system, it was far too dangerous for them to try and make use of it. Aside from the risk of being caught, the water itself was so tainted after even just a few minutes on the environmental-disaster of a planet it would more likely kill than clean you.

_Never mind. Clean is better than nothing. Doesn't smell too bad, this time._

She had the habit of giving her fur a thorough inspection with her nose each and every time she stepped out of the decon chamber. The behaviour stemmed from having spent an extended stay in a Plutarkian prison camp, where washing was seen as almost treacherous rather than one of life's luxuries. It had taken months for her sensitive olfactory system to accept that she had actually rid herself of the vile odour engrained in her pelt.

She hadn't been able to rid herself of the impulsive need to check though. Nor had she been able to ever fully free herself of the other physical reminders of her imprisonment. Aside from the scars hidden under her fur, the remodelled sections of bone in her right arm, her left femur, knee and tibia, several of her ribs, and one vertebra, well they never had had the right conditions for a perfect healing. And now the ache in her joints that plagued her was a constant reminder of the misaligned skeleton she was stuck with.

This was another reason, she assumed, for the low level of mistrust emitting from her subordinates. They had never actually seen her in battle. After escaping from the prison camp, and after a short while in one of the resistance field hospitals, she had not gone back onto the front line. She had wanted to, but she wasn't in any fit state. They had promoted her to general, and now she had the unenviable task of directing teams of fighters into battle with their enemies, and subsequently watching her people die. Her leadership skills were on the line, even if she wasn't, that was for sure.

Not that all battles had ended in tears. Early on, fresh from her days in the field, her no-nonsense, yet open-minded style of command had gained them huge leaps in this never ending war. Her knowledge, skills, tactical plans – they all gave the resistance what they needed. Progress. But lately, the last few months, things had been failing more often than succeeding.

Whilst not every plan was scuppered, the majority of high value targets, ones that they really needed to take out or gain control of, were already on alert before they even entered their air space. It was as if they knew they were coming.

_But how could they, unless there is a leak? There must be. It's too much of a coincidence._

Every night she would think the same thing. How was the information getting to their enemies? Did they have a mole? If so, who? She had personally screened everyone on base, and not one individual had given her any reason to doubt their integrity. Not even the Plutarkian defectors. If anything she trusted them more than some of the Martians she had found herself working with.

_They must have one hell of a cover to be in this deep. Frost's going to have his tail in a twist trying to dig out those we really can trust._

If there was one thing she was certain of, that rat was not the leak. She had spent enough time delving into the depths of his mind to know him better than even he did, and if there was one thing the rat had it was loyalty. To his species, to his planet. To her.

The General turned over and tried to get comfortable. Sleep was important, but it was so hard to relax when there were so many uncertainties. They had gotten so close to finally having an advantage over the Plutarkian threat... and then suddenly it had slipped away from them, as if a quake had split the ground beneath their feet, and their gains had disappeared into the abyss leaving them divided and unstable. It kept her awake for hours most nights.

After a while, the heaviness of exhaustion finally took hold and the mouse drifted off to sleep. Not that her sleep allowed her much rest. As soon as her mind had reached that state of unconsciousness where other parts of her brain awakened, she might as well have been awake herself the ensuing dreams were so vivid.

Mostly these were memories of the day's events. Usually they were distorted, the faces in them morphed into ugly, fang-toothed monsters, all grinning viciously in her direction before they pounced... Sometimes, though, the images in her mind bore absolutely no resemblance to her day to day activities.

One morning she had thrown herself from her bunk and in front of the little dresser in her room, gazing into the reflection before her and checking she was still a mouse, and not something else. She kept seeing a woman, around her own age, with the same coloured eyes. But that was where the likeness ended, because the woman was definitely not Martian. She had heard of humans but never actually seen one face to face. This woman was definitely one of those, though, she had decided after a while. But why she was seeing something she had never before encountered...

There was another face too, in fact several. One had pale skin, with strange glowing eyes and flap-covered nostrils. Others were undoubtedly Plutarkian. And then there was the other. The man in the mask. Purple-man, she called him, for his eyes and his clothes were of the same shade. She couldn't decide what to make of him. He looked vaguely human, but she sensed he wasn't. And there was more to add to her confusion. On the one hand there was this deep down feeling that he was bad, that he had done terrible things and that he was not to be trusted. On the other he seemed so sad, so broken... and this woman, whoever she was, genuinely cared for him. And yet she, the woman, still had that tiny trace of reservations towards him, like her.

She tossed fitfully in her bunk as the night's newest show emerged in her unconscious. She could hear the young commander's voice on the radio as she ordered his destruction. Terrified, pleading, sobbing. And yet she had still done it. The alien on comms gave her such a sickened look when she gave the order, but he didn't challenge it. He never did.

Then she was in her room again, head down on the dresser, Frost's warning still tingling in her ears, her own thoughts drifting...

_I'm the leak._

She sobbed into her furry arms, the distress at having to follow protocol, her protocol, making her wish she could be somewhere else. Back home. Leading a normal life, not a war.

_Look at yourself. Pull yourself together and take a good, long look at what you've become._

Wiping her damp face she lifted her head and stared into the mirror. Her green eyes were moist, and puffy, and their white sclera were tinged with red.

_I'm a mouse?_

A mouse. A disgrace. I'm so ashamed to call myself a Martian, let alone a General, she thought as she held her own gaze.

After a few seconds the reflection blurred, but it wasn't from the tears in her eyes because now they were dry. She had brought herself under control... or had she? Was she hallucinating now?

_Is it possible to hallucinate in a dream?_

The image in front of her was no longer fur-covered. It had smooth, pale skin, long auburn hair, and those near identical emerald green eyes.

_It's her... or me... am I her?_

The human in the mirror had her hands on her face, running it over her delicate features. It took her a minute to realise her own hands were doing the same.

_What the -? Who are you?_

I'm you, and you're me, the voice said in the back of her mind.

_But how? How can you and me be the same? I'm a mouse... not a..._

The voice was insistent. It said they were the same, but she knew they weren't. The voice wasn't her own, and neither was the image in the mirror.

_You're the leak._

She stared, unseeing, not understanding. Her body was rising, and she had no control. It was picking up a rifle from the rack on the wall. Her rifle, on her wall. It was in her hands. It was in her face, under her chin. The barrel was pressing into the base of her snout, and her finger was on the trigger.

_Nooo... stop!_

She felt her finger pressing harder, she heard a click...

"Nooooooooooo!"

"General? General wake up! General Kalis! Wake up now! Kalis wake up!"

"Nooooo! Noooo! I don't want to die!"

"Shhh, you're not going to die. You're safe. You're in your bunk, in your room, on the base. You are completely safe. You are not going to die... not today anyway."

Frost pulled the sobbing mouse into his arms and held her tight. He had roused her from nightmares before, but this was the first time she had been so vocal. This was the first time she had been afraid for her life.  _Must have been a bad one this time._

"But... but... I..."

"You're safe now, i'm here." The rat straightened his arms, his hands holding tightly to her shoulders, and looked into her eyes. "Look at me Kalis, look at me and tell me you trust me."

"I...I..."

"You trust me, don't you Kalis? I won't let anything happen to you, I swore it then and I swear it now. Tell me you trust me."

"I trust you, Frost. I do. I... I don't know what came over me... i'm sorry."

"No need to say sorry. Everyone has bad dreams, especially now. Especially people who have been through so much, like you." He cuddled her again, stroking her long, ebony hair with his paw-like hand.

General Kalis nuzzled into his chest and inhaled deeply. For a Martian rat he smelt so good. Unlike most of his kind his musk was much _lighter,_ and his guard hairs were softer and more touchable. His undercoat was silver, and downy, and the with the way his fur lay over his skin it looked like he had been dusted with powdered ice. Hence his name. Or his nickname. No one could ever be sure, and no one really cared. A name was a name, and it was much better than being a number.

Kalis shuddered. 7340, that had been hers. It was still etched on the back of her neck, somewhere, and though the army doctors had taken a look at it they had been powerless to remove it. Plutarkian inks were as tough and durable as their other materials it seemed. They had told her it would probably fade, eventually, but for now she just had to be satisfied that her fur covered it up.

"It was her again, Frost. I saw her again... only..."

The rat waited for her to continue. He knew how important these dreams were to the mouse, and whether or not they actually carried any importance to their present situation, he would still listen as if they were the single most vital bit of intel they could ever hope to lay their hands on.

She wasn't speaking, so he gave her a nudge. "Go on... tell me. What did she do?"

"She... made me shoot myself."

This was different. So far all these dreams she had told him of were just her observing the other woman as if she were on camera. "She made you? How?"

"I don't know. She said she was me. She said I was her. Then... then I was moving but I wasn't in control, she was, somehow. She made me put a rifle to my chin..."

"I don't understand. Why would she have you kill yourself? If she is you then she killed herself too."

"She said... no... I said..."  _Oh no. Oh no, it can't be. But what if it is?_

Her mind flicked back to a few weeks earlier. She had gained some intel of a Plutarkian strike on one of their resistance bases on Helios minor, and had ordered a watch team be on standby. The intel had been good, and the oncoming warship had been spotted just outside the system by one of their monitoring stations. Mere hours after she had been informed, the ship had turned around, and left without firing a single shot.

A few weeks before that she had ordered a strike on target sixty-six, a military half-way house the Plutarkians used for long-distance space travel. Ever since learning of its existence she had made it a high priority target. Taking it out would severely hinder the fish-led attack on the planets in the next system over, because this hub was essentially a refuelling station. She had sat on the intel for a week before drawing up a plan, and then it was another two weeks before a strategy to take it out had been agreed. But, the real knot in the fur was that she had altered one crucial detail of their entry point literally an hour before breach, and very few had been privy to the change. She had done it as a test, knowing that if there was a mole this would reveal something, or someone, behind it.

The strike had been a success. She had assumed it was because whoever was leaking information hadn't heard of the change in plans. But now...

Kalis gripped the rat harder as it dawned on her, finally, what the human woman in her dream had been trying to tell her.

"I... oh god... Frost. I don't know how, exactly... but..."

"It's alright. Tell me."

"Frost. The leak... the mole.. it's  _me._  I don't know how, or how I know, but it has something to do with these dreams, and with that woman. She was trying to tell me."

The rat was looking at her gobsmacked. "It can't be you. It can't be, or else we would all be dead. You know everything, about our base, our fighter teams, everything. It just can't be you."

"It has to be Frost. It's not anyone else, I know it isn't. I'm relieving myself of duty, effective immediately. You're in charge now. Don't tell me anything, and I will stay confined to quarters. You know we can't take the chance, this has to be done."

He continued to stare at her incredulously, but nodded. He had never doubted her, not once, not even when everything pointed at her failing as a leader. But what she was saying, the implications were far too great to ignore. He would give her a week, tell the others on base she was sick, and in that time he would find out if it was her. All it would take was a bit of... disinformation...

"Fine. But this stays off the books. No one is to know why. As far as anyone else will know, you're on sick leave. No one will question it, you look half dead most of the time."

The woman cringed, and he softened a little. "I didn't mean it like that. You just look like you need a break." He hugged her again, and licked her snout affectionately. "I promise you we will fix this. If it is you there must be a way out. You need some rest, some sleep. You can make yourself useful by trying to figure out who that woman is."

Kalis nodded. This was the best thing she could do. If the woman was a real person, then maybe she had answers as to what was happening to her. And if she had been trying to communicate with her, in her dreams, then she had better get back to bed and sleep some more, and hopefully dream some more too.

"Deal. But... will you stay with me... just tonight? I... I don't want... can't..."

The rat took her snout in his paw and pulled her into a kiss. "Of course I will, give me some room will you?"

The mouse shifted over on her bunk to give Frost some space to join her. He lay down on his back, lifting his arm to allow her in close. She snuggled down into him, pressing her ear down to his chest to listen to the gentle, rhythmic swish of his heartbeat. He is always so calm, she thought, the kind of guy I really need when i'm falling apart, or losing my mind.

He sighed, it felt good to be close to someone. It didn't matter to him that she was a mouse, and he a rat, and that back home their relationship would have been scorned by most. No, to him there were more important things to worry about than interspecies differences.

He looked at the clock. 3am, local time. Three more hours and he was back on shift. Three more hours and he had to face the consequences of her admission. What a bombshell, he thought, especially if it were true. No matter. Whatever the morning held, for now all that mattered was the mouse in his arms, and their future that was now in his hands.


	20. Alone I stand

_Once upon a time there was a young, white-furred mouse named Vinnie. He didn't have many friends in school, but then again he didn't have a school for long enough to make much of an impression. When the Plutarkians came and destroyed it, the young Martian had fled the area with his classmates and teachers, eventually joining the other refugees and their families. He hadn't even realised his own hadn't made it out of there until it was too late. He was lost, alone, and very scared. But then, from the crowd of frightened mice and their children came one who wasn't afraid. Or at least he didn't show it. He was older, and much bigger than the little white mouse, and he had seen him standing there all on his own without his parents. He wrapped him up in his strong, grey arms, and carried him away with him. The little mouse was anxious, and missed his family, but the older one said it would be fine. He said he would take him home with him, and that his moma would take care of him too. And he was right, and she did._

_But the war on Mars grew worse and worse, and as fast as those two mice grew they knew they couldn't stay at home forever. Together they said their goodbyes and set off to join the freedom fighters, taken in under the wing of a kind old mouse who knew the family well. He kept the new recruits safe on base whilst they trained, and they joined a large group of other young mice who had also dedicated themselves to the cause._

_And so it was that the little white mouse made friends, and soon he and his new brother were joined by a third mouse with tan fur, whom they quickly adopted as one of their own. Now they were three._

_They trained together, lived together, slept and ate together. They fought together side by side, and never, ever considered leaving one of their trio behind in battle. They swore to stick by each other to the end, to the very end, no matter what. They got captured together, escaped together, took their revenge together. And when, eventually, they found themselves far away from their home world, when they crash-landed on Earth together, they made themselves a new life protecting that planet from harm._

_But, despite their courage, heroics, and boundless strength in the face of disaster, not everything went well for the three mice. Try as they may, the forces of evil were determined to keep them apart, to weaken them by splitting them up and breaking the brotherly bonds between them. They sensed this evil and its motives, and fought back time and time again, resolving that they would never be separated. Until one day, one terrible day, they came up against something so strong, and so unbeatable, they couldn't do anything to stop it. It tore them from each other, erecting a barrier so large and formidable it was impossible for them to ever return to each other's sides. And for the first time since the little white mouse found himself wandering on his own in the crowd, he felt truly, truly alone._

* * *

"Get up, you stupid rat. Get up now, or you know what'll happen."

The foot was kicking at his side, but he hardly had the strength to respond anymore.

"I said get up. Now!"

The blow was harder, into his ribcage. It was insane. How was he expected to breathe if they kept knocking his wind from him? He tried to get up, he knew he had to... If he wanted to live. Not that he did. Not anymore.

Somehow he got to his feet again. The chain around his neck had dug into his windpipe, and that plus the blow to his chest, and the loss of the use of a nostril, made getting oxygen inside him very difficult. There were stars in his eyes, and a singing in his ears. He had hoped they wouldn't notice he had fallen and let him choke to death on his chain, but there was always someone watching him. They didn't want him to die. They wanted him to suffer.

And he was suffering. It wasn't just being locked in a tiny space, standing on a metal grill day in day out, with noxious fumes wafting up from below, and vile wastes tumbling down from above. It wasn't being force-fed whatever they felt like giving him that day, if he was lucky (or unlucky) enough to be fed at all. It wasn't the freezing cold showers from the pressure hose they gave him every now and again, taking off the top layer of dirt festering in his surface wounds, whilst also violently chilling him to his body's core. No, it wasn't any of that that made him really suffer.

It was them. All of them. The thousand eyes that stared at him each morning and evening when they passed. The looks of disgust. The retching. The pity. The scorn. The  _hatred_. And then the eyes stopped looking. The smell was enough to remind them he was there, but they didn't want to acknowledge his presence anymore. They couldn't, because he was too much of a reminder as to their harshness of their existence. They hadn't forgotten him, but they would have if they could. No, this was far worse. Now they simply ignored him.

Even them. His bros. They had abandoned him to his fate. And now that he was alone, and suffering, he wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind. But there was no room for mercy down here, and the terms of his punishment was that he was not allowed a way out.

He was on his feet again but he was still in trouble. The door was locked once more, which meant he wouldn't be beaten today, at least not on the outside of his body.

His eyes weren't working too good now, but he could still see well enough to trace the dark matter passing down the tube that led into his stomach. A tear leaked from his lower lids and slid down his sewn snout. Even though he was meant to only get one meal a day, sometimes he had several. The guards thought it amusing to see what happened when they gave him something that wasn't on the official menu, and their culinary creativity was almost endless.

Tonight would be spent with belly ache in the least. The doctor had told him the medications included a drug to stop him vomiting, a necessity for someone whose mouth had been put out of action. But it didn't stop his body from getting upset in other ways. What couldn't come out his mouth almost always made an appearance at the other end. Tonight he would be adding to the liquid staining on his legs, and as his cage had not been hosed for a while he would also be adding to the pile he was already standing in.

It wasn't long before the cramps started. He squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his tethered jaw, and prayed desperately for it all to be over.

He felt his belly expanding. He was being punished soundly for his weakness, and the guard was laughing as he kept on pushing the syringe plunger time and time again.

And then he was gone, and Vinnie was left alone. He didn't know for how much longer. Each time they punished him his body grew weaker, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he finally fell down for good. Tonight might be that night, he thought.  _Please, let it be tonight._

His swollen stomach spasmed and churned, and he felt the familiar rumblings of complaint in his lower abdomen. He could do nothing but stand there and endure it, as the chain around his neck would not allow him any rest. The best he could manage was to sink forwards against the wall, crouching his back end to the floor. It wasn't comfortable. He hadn't had anything resembling sleep for several weeks now.

It was too hard for him, this time. His arms were shaking, his knees buckling. The fever in his body was rising as fast as he was sinking. His forehead was pressing against the cool yet filthy stone of the chamber, but even his neck refused to support him for long.

Vinnie started to slump forwards again as his legs gave way. Soon his back end was resting in filth and his front end was leant against the wall, the chain taut between his neck and its fastening, preventing him from lying down. He felt the suffocating pressure on his throat. He made no effort to stop it.

With one last groan behind his muted lips he allowed the blackness to claim him, for he could not stand and suffer any longer.


	21. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an interim chapter because I was suffering from writer's block.

She had been gone for hours now. Several, in fact, and for much longer than normal. It always made him nervous when she wasn't around, and not only that but lonely too. The intense quiet was almost painful; an emptiness not just affecting his auditory senses but deeper inside as well. Sensory deprivation for the body and soul. After spending most of his life surrounded by noise of some sort or other, whether it be the thronging masses of his own kind, or the bumbling idiocy of his henchmen, being left somewhere where the only sounds came from the cell next door, and rarely anything beyond, was a torture all in its own right.

The Earth woman. His only source of entertainment, or companionship. Oh how much he missed her when they took her away, and how relieved he felt when they returned her to her cell. For some reason, today, this period of solitude had been dragging on for far longer than normal, which made him somewhat curious and also, he would admit, a little scared.

It had been over a month since he himself had been returned to the prison, and with the rich supply of nutrition constantly being supplied to him he had regained his health with almost unimaginable speed. So whilst part of him was anxious about the fate of his neighbour, the rest of him was extremely concerned about his own future.

Any day now they'll be coming for me, he thought to himself more and more as time passed by. There was little he could do though, other than pray these extended periods on his own meant that Charley was getting somewhere with her rescue plan.

She had told him in their roundabout fashion of using fairy tale code that she had, she thought, had a breakthrough in 'contacting' her alter ego. She was hoping to somehow gain enough control of the Martian General's body to organise a rescue mission. Apparently her other self was putting up quite a bit of resistance. And the recollection of her time spent in this other persona was getting less and less distinct.

Limburger pressed his rubber face against the bars between their cells and sighed. The chances of them ever getting out of here were slowly diminishing, and with that any hope of him not having to go through a second round of brooding. The woman had promised to do everything in her power to not let him suffer again, but what could she do, really?

_If only humans possessed some kind of secret power to blast open Plutarkian glass steel, then we might be getting somewhere._

When the pair of them got bored with fairy tales they sometimes indulged in super hero fiction.

However, as neither of them had the strength to rip open their containments, they were stuck to the old fashioned method of actually using their brains. Charley had plenty of those, so the Plutarkian was quite happy to let her work out the details, whilst he provided what he considered valuable intel on his species security protocols. When the headaches were at their worst the woman accused him of picking holes in her ideas. But it was no good him keeping his mouth shut, for he had a vested interest in the mechanic's plans being pulled off, and he told her as much.

Or tried. Talking in riddles gave him a sore head too sometimes.

He sat there for a while on his bunk, his head resting on the steel bars, watching for any signs of the guards returning his missing neighbour. His eyes began to close, boredom and lethargy draining him of the energy to stay awake. He had just started falling into a light doze when, finally, he heard the familiar sound of footfalls and banging doors coming from the corridor.

_Thank goodness for that. I..._

The door to the cell block swung open and four heavily-armed Plutarkian guards swarmed into the area and towards his cell door.

_Oh. Crap._

"On your feet, Limburger, hands behind your head. Now."

The fish knew better than to disobey, and rose from his bunk as ordered and stood with his fingers interlocked on the back of his skull. In seconds one of the guards was in his cell and cuffing his hands behind his back, and marching him out the door and into the corridor. His stomach was churning with fear. Today was that day, the one he had been dreading.

It didn't matter how much or how loudly he pleaded with them not to take him, they merely hit him with their weapons and forced him onwards, leading him away from the relative safety of his prison cell and to the uncertainty of the transport ship at the lower docking bay.

Once there he was loaded on board, and locked inside one of the mini cells that filled the main bay of the airship. He heard the rumbling of the engines as they powered up, then the clunk of the hanger doors locking shut, and detected the sensation of movement as the vessel departed for the mainland.

The journey only took half an hour, but every minute felt like an hour itself. The whole time the fish fought to not be sick he was so afraid.

The ship had landed on the roof of the clinic, a specialist centre that provided care and treatment to brooding parents, as well as having an extensive research base for all matters concerning fertility in their species. The moment Limburger stepped outside he knew exactly where he was, for the familiar markings on the building's roof confirmed it.

An unwelcome familiarity. He recognised every part of the route to the impregnation ward. The sterile walls, the squeak of the tiled flooring, the smell of his species' hormones and bodily fluids. Whilst almost every other patient in this place was smiling and happy, or hopeful, he was quite the opposite. This was his own personal hell, or in the least the gates leading into it.

"Ah, Limburger, so glad to see you again – and looking so well too!" His boss was there to greet him, like last time, his whole being absolutely bursting with glee.

Seeing his subject's face so full of alarm only further added to his pleasure. Lord High Chairman Camembert simply delighted in tormenting the helpless fish. "Don't look so worried, my most unworthy of underlings, this is merely a... check-up... to see if you are fit to be  _honoured_  with bearing my next clutch of children."

_Phew, just a check-up. Please don't let them think i'm ready, not yet._

The relief Limburger was displaying was obvious and Camembert grinned. He knew this punishment was by and far the most degrading of all possible sentences, and probably one of the most painful too. And as the fish had survived the last one, it was most likely that with the right amount of care this unfortunate body could provide him with years of service as a brooding chamber.

They had led him into one of the examination rooms, and one of the nurses was busy taking readings and samples and measurements of just about everything the Plutarkian's body had to offer. Throughout the entire process Limburger kept silent, although the High Chairman more than made up for the gaps in conversation.

"You'll be pleased to hear the little ones are doing well. We've only lost two more, the remaining fry are all very strong. I think they will make great warriors when they grow up. I might even assign them to Earth, in your memory Limburger. They will succeed where you failed i'm sure. Isn't that just wonderful news, Limburger? That you might have done something worthwhile for once? And that you will do, again, in another month's time?"

Limburger nodded, his misery and acceptance of his fate showing only in the single tear running down his masked features.

"Nurse, how is he doing? Can we proceed? As soon as possible, i'm hoping; my wife is coming up to her next cycle and I don't want to miss it."

The nurse huffed. She didn't like to be hurried in her work, not even for someone as important as their leader. "Yes, yes, he will be ready soon. But not today. He has gained plenty of weight, but the last round put a lot of stress on his body. It's no good doing it on a thin fish, he has to be carrying enough fat to keep himself alive too and not  _just_  your offspring."

There was a thinly veiled implication in her words that the first brooding had been done against medical advice, and that she was none too impressed about this. Her work was her pride, and her honour, and she didn't want to tarnish the reputation of her employers either.

"I see. So, how long then?" Camembert did not like her tone of voice one bit, but kept his cool.

"Another week, preferably two. And I will need to give him a calcium booster, or his skeleton won't be strong enough to support the clutch."

Camembert scowled. "Fine.  Well get on with it then, my wife does not like to be kept waiting you know."  _Or me, you insufferable know-it-all._

The injection didn't hurt much, indeed nothing did compared to having your insides torn apart, and Limburger did not raise any objections. As far as he was concerned he had a reprieve, albeit temporary, which meant there was still time for Charley to do what she needed to do.

However, things might not be as promising as he hoped.

"I'll see you in a week, Limburger" the malodorous monarch whispered in his ear as he was led out of the clinic, "I don't care what that stuck-up nurse says, you will take my spawn when I want you to, ready or not."

Limburger paled. That time they needed was desperately short as it was, and was now rapidly decreasing. Camembert strode away chortling, leaving his subject trembling in the grip of the guards as they took him to the waiting airship.

Back in his cell once again the fish paced the floor as he waited, anxiously, for news. Charley still had not returned and he was beginning to wonder if she would be at all.

_What if they know?  What if they found out what she was up to? What if they realised she had figured out what they are doing and is trying to forge a rescue attempt? Or worse... what if they've finished with her? What next, what will they do with her then?_

There were so many questions buzzing around his mind, all of them worried that their only hope of escape had been taken away. There was so much going on in his brain he didn't even realise the cell block door had opened.

The limp body of his cell mate was deposited once more in her bed, and as soon as the fish had come to his senses, once the transfer guards had left, he practically threw himself onto his bunk so he could see through to the sleeping woman.

"Charley? Charley, wake up! Wake up Charley, please..."

She wasn't stirring, and he was getting more frantic.

"Charley? Charley! CHARLEY!" He bellowed through the bars and the silent guard outside must have jumped two feet from his sentry position.

"Keep it down, prisoner, or I will have no option but to make you shut up."

The guard actually spoke, and it was clear he didn't do it unless it was important. Sensing the certainty of the threat Limburger dropped his voice to just above a whisper, still trying to get through to the unconscious form across the other side of the neighbouring cell.

"Please wake up, Charley. We... I mean I... don't have much time. In a week they're going to do it again, i've only got a week and they... oh please Charley wake up. Wake up and... tell me a story... please."

It wasn't working, and the fish slumped down onto his mattress and sobbed. For all he knew the woman might never wake up again, even if she was dumped back in her cell between sessions. He might not ever know if she succeeded in getting through to her alter ego, or made any headway in getting help for them. For all he knew, they might have found out what she was up to and put a stop to it. And if that was the case then he was surely doomed. A life of servitude and suffering awaited him. And worse: a life of silence.


	22. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some idea of what is going on between Kalis and Charley... but you will have to wait a bit longer for more to be revealed!
> 
> ps Artwork of Kalis and Frost can be seen on DeviantArt by the brilliant LadyFarnesse http://ladyfarnese.deviantart.com/

"Dammit Frost, I can't even tell what's real and what's a dream anymore; how do you expect me to make any decisions, let alone ones as big as this?"

"Chill Kalis, it's not life threatening. Just because you're on leave doesn't mean you don't have duties anymore. And besides, this one needs a woman's touch." The soft-furred rat gave her a small wink and grabbed the scowling General gently by her arms. He knew she was over-reacting, grand style, and so did she – but the woman was under so much pressure right now even relatively simple things could be overwhelming for her. In this case, negotiating a trade with a passing cargo vessel for supplies.

"But what if... you know...  _she_  interferes? I mean, if what she says is the truth? It might compromise base security." Kalis's biggest fear was being discovered by their enemies: primarily, but not limited to, the Plutarkian forces, and since she had found out there might be something going on inside her mind other than simply bad dreams she couldn't be too careful.

She had insisted she remain on 'sick leave' until they were certain she was not a threat to her own base's safety, and though Frost had devised several rather clever means of finding out if it was her leaking intel, so far the results had been inconclusive.

Thus, with so many of their personnel waist deep in debriefs or preparing for future mission and working triple shifts, the rat thought it fairly safe to give General Kalis something useful to do to take her mind off things.

"Like I said, it's a simple negotiation. You can do it all on radio, from your room. I'll have comms organise the exchange, all you need to do is wrangle over prices. I know you like a bit of verbal wrestling before dinner." He pulled the mouse into a tight hug, wrapping his thick, muscular tail around her knees in a playful gesture that suggested the woman preferred a physical tussle just as much as one with words.

For a moment she stood there, still thinking about the repercussions of her having any contact with anyone beyond the walls of the base. The pressure on her body increased for a second, the squeeze snapping her out of it. She bared her teeth, letting out a low growl before skilfully hauling the rat from his feet, and throwing him over her body and onto the bed – with her still firmly in his clutches.

The pair of them struggled around for a few minutes, each trying to overpower the other, and neither succeeding in anything more than completely messing up the General's normally military-level of neatness of her bedding. Eventually, exhausted, they flopped down together, her head resting on his heaving chest, him panting hard from his efforts. They were a good match, and in more ways than one.

"Do you accept defeat then, commander?" Kalis grinned, and poked him on his dark, leathery nose, whilst her body slid over his in a mock-attempt to hold him down.

"Maybe. On one condition."

"Oh... and what's that?"

Frost smiled. He loved it when she thought she had won, but she hadn't really. "On the condition that you try and get some decent food in this trade. I'm sick of living on dried mush."

Her grin faded. She had hoped he had forgotten about the cargo negotiations. "Oh right. Sure, I'll do my best."  _Damn rat always gets his way somehow_.

"In that case – I surrender General! - Are you going to throw me in the brig now?"

"In your dreams, commander. Haven't you got work to do?" Kalis huffed and let the rat up from her bed. She knew he was only doing his duty, and that included being sensitive to her situation as much as anything, but she still couldn't help feeling the frustration that came along with the sense of utter helplessness.

She wanted to be in the control room doing her duty as a general was expected, not lurking in her dorm pretending to be sick. She would have bet half her rations that most of the crew thought she was faking it, hiding away to save face in the wake of her failures. Worse still, since she had removed herself from active duty there had not been any more surprise attacks on their ground forces. This confirmed all her own suspicions that she was the problem, and probably fuelled theirs as well. Frost remained unconvinced though.

_The sooner I figure out what this human in my head wants with me the better._

Frost nodded as he rose from her bunk, sensing she wanted to be alone right now. He stroked her cheek with his paw before turning to leave. "I'll be back in ten with the radio. You want something to eat?"

"No, i'm alright. Thanks. I think better on an empty stomach."  _Something I had to learn the hard way_. Even since being a prisoner of the Plutarkians the mouse had had to adapt to a lot of things, and fast. "See you in ten, then."

After the door had closed Kalis threw herself back down onto her bunk. It didn't seem to matter how much sleep she had nowadays she never felt rested, and even now she could feel her eyes closing.

_Just ten minutes, that's all I need. Ten minutes sleep..._

* * *

"Err hello? Can you hear me? Dammit, why is this so hard?"

The swirling lights had finally stilled, and the spinning motion halted. Normally she would find herself either in the store room, the workshop, or the war room, or somewhere in between, but today... nothing. She couldn't see a thing.

_Maybe they've found away to stop me seeing. Just when I was getting the hang of this too._

"Hello? General? Dammit woman what's going on? You got your eyes shut or something?"

The only other conclusion she could come to was that either the mouse had gone blind, was dead, or perhaps just asleep. Though why she was sleeping in the middle of the day was a mystery. So far she had always been awake, and so Charley assumed it was daytime wherever her host was too. Not that she could tell. There were no clocks, nor windows, nor anything really to give her a clue, other than the fact that the place was always busy. If it had been night time then surely the place would be running on minimum.

_Oh for goodness sake. What a crappy time to take a nap._

"General? WAKE UP!"

Her efforts to get through to her other body finally paid off. She could sense the mouse moving around, and now it became obvious that she was indeed horizontal. After what seemed like ages Kalis opened her eyes, and the human in her mind could finally see.

"Huh? What the heck?" Kalis stared around in confusion. She was in her dorm, lying on her bed. It made no sense. She couldn't remember going for nap. And worse, that nagging noise in the back of her brain was there again.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepy head. It's me. Finally, I thought you would never wake up. What you doing sleeping now anyway? Haven't you got work to do?"

The general looked around, expecting to see someone else standing in the room with her, but she was definitely alone. "Who's there? What do you want?" Her voice was low, and trembling. She didn't want to shout out; she felt pretty stupid talking to herself as it was.

"It's me. Oh, sorry, my name's Charley. I'm from Earth. Your name's Kalis, right?"

"Uh... right..."  _What the fuck? Oh great. I must be dreaming again_.

"This is no dream, General. I really am inside your head. I don't want to be, honest, but they put me here somehow and now I sort of know what's going on I really need your help."

"My help? Lady, I can't even help myself right now, what makes you think I can do anything for you?"

"Because you're my only hope. Now listen, please. I don't know how much time i've got before they find out i'm talking to you. Or me. Erm... question... are you a real mouse?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course i'm a real mouse! It's you who isn't real. I don't care what you say, this is all a dream. It's got to be." Kalis's voice was raising with her temper, and she stood up and paced her room with her hands on her hips. "And is this some kind of sick joke, anyway, after you tried to kill me?"

_Tried to kill you? Uh oh._

Charley tried to recall if at any point she had even had that much control over her other body. As far as she remembered the most she had managed was to get her to open her eyes and look in a mirror a few times. That was a big enough achievement in itself, but there was no way she would want to harm her only means of being rescued.

"Look, I didn't try to kill you. I have no idea what you are talking about, maybe that part was a dream. I know how you feel – sometimes I don't know what's real anymore -but I swear to you, I am in your mind, this is not a dream, and I promise I did not nor ever will try to kill you. I told you. I need your help."

"What's happening to me? Where did you come from?  Why are you in my head? Please, I don't understand. Am I going crazy?" Kalis covered her face with her hands, despairing that perhaps she was sick after all. Sick in the head.

"I'm still trying to work it out myself, hon. All I can tell you is that the Plutarkians are using me somehow to get inside your head, and, as I am sure you might have guessed, using you to get intel on your resistance movement. I thought perhaps my mind was in some sort of living robot – believe me i've seen that happen before – or that I was being used to control you... but seeing as you have demonstrated you have a will of your own even when i'm in here. Well, I guess..."

"...You're a spy."

"Exactly. I'm the leak. And the people controlling this little liaison are going to be getting mighty suspicious at your lack of activity. Heck, they might even be listening in on this conversation right now."

Kalis felt her body shudder, and she knew it wasn't for herself. Perhaps this other woman did have some control over her after all.

She wandered around her room, pacing, trying to make sense of everything. If this whole thing was real, not a dream, then it explained a lot. Whilst she carried about her business some unseen eyes within were observing her every movement, her every command, her every plan and strategy. No wonder so many of her missions had been failing. And that one that hadn't... well, the last minute change had been done on a whim, and perhaps the woman hadn't been inside her at that point – they might have pulled her out once they thought they had what they needed.

"So you don't know how exactly they are doing this? No idea at all?"  _She has to have seen something, surely._

"I only know I go into some sort of chamber, it looks a bit like a transporter. At first I thought I was actually here, wherever you are. It was only when I saw you crying in the mirror that I realised something more was going on."

"Is that it?"

"More or less. They've got me pumped full to the eyeballs with drugs, and there's this weird alien that does stuff to me beforehand, though I don't know what. I go into his lab, get put to sleep, and then i'm here. Once I saw myself in the lab before they walked me to another part of the prison, they had me dressed in your uniform – which is why I thought I was being transported there – and um... there were some Plutarkians sat at a desk with monitors, and then there was the other room with the chamber. That's it – and i've only seen it once."

"So, they're monitoring what you see from over there? So right now they are seeing whatever i'm seeing. My bedroom."

"I guess. They must be able to hear stuff too. I don't know if it's better you stop speaking aloud and just think your replies, or not." Charley wished the woman would stop the twenty questions, at any minute the fish might realise she had made contact and end this meeting prematurely.

Kalis must have been thinking along the same lines. "So, you said you needed help. You're in prison? A Plutarkian prison no doubt. Let me guess: you want to get out of there?"

"Right, though why do I get the feeling this is a futile request?" Charley couldn't get the image from her mind of the General ordering the compromised squadron's termination.

The mouse lowered herself onto the stool in front of the dresser, and looked squarely into her own green eyes in the mirror, as if she were staring into the other woman's. "I guess you've seen enough to know our protocols then?"

"You could say that. Please, General. If there is any way at all. Even if not you personally, I have friends back on Earth – Martian mice – Freedom Fighters. If you could get a message to them I know they would come. I'm at the same place they were once, that's all they need to know. "

"I'm afraid long-range communications are out, Charley. I'm sorry... I... You know if I even step out this room I could jeopardise everything." Kalis sighed, and lowered her gaze. She could try asking Frost, she thought, but he had enough on his shoulders without organising a rescue party as well. And her unit would not be happy with her suddenly offering assistance to a complete stranger when their own soldiers had died in battle because of protocol.

The mouse's eyes were brimming now, her own hopelessness amplified by that of the human emotions that were clearly affecting her as well. She blinked away the tears and rested her elbows on the dresser, meaning to cradle her chin, but her arm brushed against something and she sat back again with a start.

Frost must have been into her room whilst she was asleep, and had left the radio for her on the little table.

Staring at the portable comms device made her think of something else she had to do.

"Uh. Look, i'm sorry, I really can't do a lot. You understand, right?"

"Please... I don't have much time... If there's anything, anything at all..."

Charley and Kalis could both feel the connection weakening, and the overwhelming exhaustion was beginning to take over the General's body once more. As the link was finally severed, the mouse slumped forward onto her arms and blacked out, the little radio still within the loose grasp of her fingers.

* * *

Back in the prison, Charley sat up with a jerk. It was dark, very dark, and from the soft snores issuing from next door she knew it must be night. Somehow she managed to stumble to the porcelain-like toilet bowl before she covered herself in vomit, and then tried desperately to reach the sleeping fish on the other side of the bars. It was no good. Like her alter she slid down to the floor and succumbed to sleep, her mind and body completely drained. All that was left was one single thought, before that too melted away in the darkness.

_But there might be something I can do._


	23. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strong language and upsetting themes in this one.

"I swear that rat's trying to fucking kill himself. Twice in one day. If he's got any sense he won't try it again."

Flint growled under his breath as he paced the stone floor in front of the Pit Boss's throne. He had not been impressed at having his evening meal interrupted by one of the crew, especially not with news that he had just had to punish their rodent prisoner yet again for trying to hang himself in his cage. And he was absolutely furious when the night guard followed a couple of hours later to tell him he had had to cut the rat loose from his neck chain after he had collapsed a second time.

"Maybe I should string him up by his testicles – that'll stop him thinking he can lay down in there."

"There's no need for that, Flint. I'll be sure to find a fitting punishment for him in due course, but for now..."

By contrast to his number one the Pit Boss was quite calm about the mouse's strangulation issues. In fact he was maybe even a little amused by it all. Clearly the rodent's will was completely shattered if he no longer saw the point in fighting for his life.  _Maybe it's time to move him on to more... productive... service._

The Pit Boss rubbed his chin as he contemplated the fun he intended to have with the third of the biker mice. He had certainly waited long enough, and he was quite willing to hold out just that little bit longer if it meant getting the desired result. Not everything has to be rushed, he thought, sometimes it was good to play the long game.

"What did you have done with him? The doc's got business of his own and i'm sure he doesn't want to be tending to shit-covered sick slaves right now."

Flint grimaced. He hoped the answer wasn't about to land him in a whole load of trouble. "Wes took him. He's been nagging me all month about sparing that rat, going on about him being more valuable alive than dead. I guess the little prick finally got his wish."

"Quell your temper, Flint, the man has his uses. If he wants to play mouse doctor for a few days then that's just fine. So long as he keeps on top of his other duties."

"I'll make sure of it boss, don't you worry." The head goon smirked. He enjoyed finding excuses to punish the metal worker, especially since the man seemed to think he could get away with bad mouthing him just because he wasn't in the mine any more.  _Once a slave, always a slave, and he'd better remember it._ "Don't you worry at all..."

* * *

"For fuck's sake get this thing off him, he's turning blue"  _Come on mouse, don't die on me, don't you dare fucking die._

"I'm trying alright, all the dirt's making it real hard to find the lock you know."

Wes snatched the rusted key from the guard's hand and rammed it home, knowing exactly where the hole was. Finally the heavy iron collar fell away, and he hauled the lifeless mouse from the tiny, filth-encrusted drainage chamber and out onto the tread-worn path in front.

"Get the hose – there's no way i'm carrying him anywhere covered in this."

The night guard did as he was asked, and soon the freezing water was working off the top layer of grime built up on the Martian's white fur. After clearing off his face, Wes bent down to pull the tube from the mouse's nostril, and immediately began blowing air through the little snout and into his lungs. It only took a couple of breaths before the unconscious captive snorted, coughing through his nose as his mouth was still sewn firmly shut.

"Alright, he's breathing. I'll take it from here."

"If you're sure, Wes?"

"Yes. I suppose you'd better let Flint know, or else there will be a riot down here in the morning. I'll take the mouse to my place and get him sorted."

The guard nodded and hurried away to the dining hall in the underground castle, leaving the welder alone with the sickly prisoner.

Sliding his hands under the sodden wet body, Wes gently lifted Vinnie into his arms, cradling him close to his chest as he slowly carried him back to the workshop.

_Keep breathing, little mouse, you're almost there. Just keep on breathing._

* * *

It was so warm, and the light was so very bright. Painfully bright. He didn't want to open his eyes; he wanted to be in the darkness, with that wonderful sinking feeling he had had as he had let go, and his mind had finally gone blank.

But no. His lids were being forced to open to the world against their will, and the flickering yellow torchlight burnt through his sensitive pupils worse than a solar storm. It hurt so much he couldn't help but react, though even now his options were somewhat limited.

He squirmed, and groaned, his metal bindings preventing him from fighting back, the thick stitches in his lips stifling his protests.

_What's going on? Am I dead? Please, please let me be dead..._

But there was nothing stopping his eyes now his lids had been freed of their sticky casing. Though his body was lacking somehow the tears flowed, and the salty fluids aided the man's efforts to wash away the layer of dirt that had built up around his sunken orbits.

"Easy now mouse, easy."

The voice was soothing, and mostly calm, though there was a trace of nerves filtering through his words. He recognised that voice, vaguely, but with the warmth on his body he could only think of one thing. A long time ago, someone he once knew told him of a place the dead might go if they had done bad things in their life, somewhere that some humans believed, and feared, existed. He wondered if he was there now, if this was part of his punishment? Had he really been such a bad mouse? It's not so terrible, he thought, being dead.  _At least it's not cold._

Everything he had been taught about death was that it wasn't something to be afraid of, not really, that it was simply a release. A release from the awful harshness that was life. There was definitely something not right about this though, because he had hoped that escaping from that tiny cell would mean being free of his suffering. And if there was one thing that was clear to him now, he was definitely still in pain. A lot of pain.

He could feel his body being lifted, and even the slightest movement set off another wave of spasms in his tender abdomen.

"MMmmmmmmmph!" The trickle of tears increased as his emotions gave way. He sobbed, now realising that he wasn't dead after all. Not unless he hadn't taken the trip to the afterlife on his own.

_Nooo, just let me die, please I don't want this anymore, pleeeease!_

"Easy boy, easy, I know you're hurting." Wes was talking to him, trying to keep him from panicking. It had been so very long since anyone had spoken to him like this that he had almost forgotten it was possible, and it was for this reason it took him so long to recognise the welder's deep, quietly uttered tones. "It's all over now, little mouse" the welder murmured in his ear, stroking his matted cheeks as he carried him through to his living quarters. "It's all over, shhh..."

It was lucky the man lived somewhere with its own, constant supply of warmth. His forge supplied heat to the boiler in the back room, as did the stove when the workshop was closed, and so in comparison to the rest of the Pits he also had the best access to hot water. A useful resource for someone like him, especially now.

Vinnie felt his aching body being lowered into the metal tub, and a cloth passing over his face, clearing his eyes once again. It didn't help much; having been stuck with his snout inches from a wall, surrounded by a cloak of gloom twenty-four hours a day, he was finding it hard to focus on anything beyond his nose. Particularly as the relative brightness in the room was also near unbearable.

"Alright now, let me get you cleaned up properly then we can deal with everything else."

The mouse didn't know what to think anymore. One minute he was being punished for being on the verge of death, the next he was being taken care of, nursed even. By the man who had already done so many horrible things to him.

"Mmmph..." he groaned softly, the agony in his gut overwhelming any comfort he might have gotten from the water as he was bathed. He was lying on his back in the little bath, the welder's hands passing over him in a firm but gentle action, massaging the grime from his fur and working the antiseptic into the cuts on his skin.

_Oh man, oh man it hurts... it hurts... so bad..._

The more dirt that came free, the clearer access the cleansing liquid had to the wounds beneath. Unfortunately, as anyone who had had an open sore bathed will testify, antiseptic really does sting.

Vinnie yelped, and cringed, and wriggled, groaning louder and louder as the minutes passed. In response to his protests the man merely continued his soft-spoken monologue, and did not stop the cleaning until he was satisfied he had done his best. It would be several hours before he had enough hot water in the tank for a second wash, so this would have to do until then.

"That's it, we're done for now, let's just rinse you down and get you dried off."

By rinse the welder did not just mean the bucket of clean water he had saved to wash off the suds. As soon as the mouse was out the tub and on the towel, and after a quick rub down to remove the excess damp, Wes slipped one of his wooden stools under the mouse's stomach and rested him on it, as his shaking legs were incapable of supporting his weight. He left him there for a few minutes, which was a very painful few minutes considering how sore his belly was, but soon the man returned to finish the job.

A tube down the nose, and a syringe filled with laxative. A fast-acting one at that. The empty bucket was installed at Vinnie's back end, and whilst the welder waited for the medicine to act he filled up his old hot water bottle in readiness.

Half an hour later it was all over, and with a damp cloth having taken care of the inevitable mess resulting from the cleanse, Wes lifted the mouse into his arms once more and carried him back through to the workshop. He had lost so much weight even someone as slight-framed as the welder could manage his skinny body quite easily.

"As you can see mouse, i've been expecting you for a while now. It's not exactly the Ritz, but i'm sure you will appreciate it nonetheless; plus it beats a cage any day, don't you think?"

Vinnie found himself being placed onto a thick mound of straw bedding, and his upper surface covered with a thin woollen blanket. The tube Wes had inserted was still in his nose, it was the same one he had removed earlier – though he had at least cleaned it before putting it back in – and now the man was mixing up another concoction to deliver into his patient's churning stomach.

After stirring the solution for a while, Wes set down the cup and reached over to the small desk by the wall. He had known for some time that at some point the mouse would be too sick to stay in his cage any longer, and had gathered what he needed to take care of him in advance. All he had had to do was pester Flint enough to ensure it was him who got the nursing duties, and not the somewhat unfeeling doctor the Pit Boss employed.

From the wooden table he picked up a cereal box-sized plastic container, its lid clearly marked in pen with the words 'first aid'. It had taken a lot of effort to get this thing stocked up, mostly through bribes and under-the-table deals made with the less malicious, more open-minded guards in the prison.

Vinnie had his eyes tight shut so he couldn't see what the man was doing, although when the blanket was lifted, and then his tail, he jerked up with a start at the feel of the cold glass thermometer pushing inside him.

"Mmmph!"  _What the heck?_

"Easy there mouse, there's nowhere else for this baby to go." Wes chuckled a little at the Vinnie's reaction, considering what else had recently been put up there, but then his face fell as he pulled out the little stick to take the reading. "Sheesh you're running one hell of a temperature. Never mind, I got something that will take care of that too."  _I hope. 105 is high even for one of these guys i'm sure._

The smaller syringe in his box was employed to deliver the medicine, a mixture of pain killers and an antiemetic to stop him being sick. He didn't give him anything to halt the diarrhoea, though, because everyone knows it's better out than in.

"Pity I couldn't get you one of those fluid drips, you're dry as a bone." He sighed. After a heavy dose of laxatives, and then an enema, the mouse was going to need a lot of liquids to replace what he had lost. "Guess I got to do it the old fashioned way. Sorry, little mouse, this one last thing then you can sleep."

He returned from his sitting room with the larger volume syringe, which he washed out and then filled with another mixture. It was bright pink, and came from a sachet in his kit. Oral rehydration solution, packed with sugars, salts and other life-giving substances. A god-send if ever there was on in this place, and he had himself quite a stash of the stuff by now. The crafty welder had intercepted a delivery to the doc's office and siphoned off the top layer off goods, making sure the blame for the missing items all fell with the supplier and not with him.

Wes filled the mouse's belly with half a sachet's worth of the necessary fluids and electrolytes, and then covered him once more with his blanket and tucked him in.

"That's it, all done. You should be feeling a little more comfortable now anyway."

As Vinnie's collar had been removed he was not attached in his usual manner to the iron loops on the walls, which at least gave him the freedom to curl up and relax. But he wasn't going anywhere. He was far too weak to even stand, and even if he could he was still locked in his wrist-to-ankle shackles.

But he didn't care. He didn't want to move. It was warm, his belly was finally free of the noxious mixture that had been slowly poisoning him from within, replaced instead with something to help him feel better, and his fur was smooth and clean, and didn't smell like a sewer. Well, not as much, he couldn't really tell, though at least for the first time since being taken as a slave he was lying on something that wasn't cold steel.

His nose had been badly burned by the ammonia he had been forced to live in, so he couldn't entirely appreciate the musty, earthy smell of his bedding, but the rough and spongy texture of the stalks felt wonderful beneath him, as did the scratchy fabric lying over his tender skin.

"Mmm mmm." He pressed his nose into the dry material and moaned softly in appreciation, and swished his tail slightly so that it poked out from under his cover.

Wes smiled. If the being at his feet were a dog then the action would have been akin to a wag. "You rest now, little mouse" he whispered, noting how his patient was finally relaxing, "and in the morning we can see about getting you a decent meal."

_I don't know why he's doing this, but oh man it's so good to lie down._

Vinnie's mind was still whirring even as he drifted off. A tiny part of him was thankful for being saved, but a much larger portion of his instincts was still very much aware that living also meant more suffering.

For the moment he could only enjoy the gesture of kindness the man was giving him, and try his best to not think of what was going to happen when he switched back to Pit Boss's torture-on-demand lackey, or whatever it was that was behind the cruelty the man had subjected him too. How much of what the welder did on orders, and how much was of his own volition, still troubled the white-furred Martian, and he could not erase the image from his mind of the hardened look in Wes's eyes as he had carried out the Pit Boss's wishes.

What bothered him more, right now, was that he couldn't see the expression on the welder's face to know if this latest turn of character was genuine. Nor did he know what had happened to his bros, and if their indifference to his plight had been forced upon them or sincere. He didn't know how long he had been locked away in that chamber, away from his friends, but only time would tell if he could ever again even look them in the eye and still call them his brothers.


	24. Nature's sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates, been very busy lately and still trying to get past the writer's block :-( (this is for the later chapters on FF where I am up to 37)

_Dammit, I missed her again_.

As if it wasn't bad enough that time was ticking away faster than a slime-worm sauté at a Plutarkian dinner party, realising that he had slept through the woman's return, or awakening, was simply depressing. The night he had been told he would soon be returning to brooding duties he had eventually fallen asleep, cried himself to sleep even, and not even heard her stirring from her lengthy slumber. When he awoke the next morning she had already gone again.

A couple of times that week he had woken in the night sure that he had detected her moving around, but hadn't, and the rest of the time she had not even been placed in her cell until after lights out.

Limburger cursed himself for being a heavy sleeper. Even though he was a snorer, somehow his brain shut down so completely when he slept it practically took a bombing raid to rouse him. In fact, he suspected, this nocturnal unconsciousness probably stemmed from spending most of his adult life at war.

Aside from his angst at the lack of news, there was still some hope.  _At least if they are still taking her that means they haven't discovered what she is up to._

But then again, it was equally possible that she hadn't actually succeeded in making contact, he thought miserably, whilst also desperately hoping for probably the first time in his life that the human woman was able to pull off one of her plans.

Try as he may, though, every opportunity he had to speak to the woman failed. Charley simply would not wake up when he called to her. He was stuck knowing only that his time was running out, and guessing that hers probably was too.

_Come on Charley, please be getting somewhere with this, for both our sakes._

On the sixth night Limburger was pacing his dingy cell, his levels of anxiety spiralling with each turn on his heels, and his hope of never having to be filled with Plutarkian spawn dwindling with each and every passing minute. He knew that unless the Earth woman had got her SOS message across to her alter ego, and that some sort of rescue mission was imminently about to blast open the roof to this prison...

_I'm sushi. Tomorrow morning. Oh god._

He waited up far later than he ever had done before. His stack of plates filled with his pre-brooding conditioning foods had long since been emptied, and even the guard outside was yawning. Clearly he was waiting too. It was almost time for the night shift to take over.

Just as Limburger had almost given up and lain down on his bunk, there was a clamour from the corridor outside.

It wasn't just the doors banging either. It was voices. One in particular seemed to cut through the metal barriers to his ears.

Seconds later the block's door swung open and several panting guards burst through wrestling something small and pink-skinned between them. Charley was spitting and yelling like a feral cat, clawing at the fish holding tightly onto her and demanding for them to release her.

"Let me go, LET ME GO YOU REEKING FISH!" Her temper was probably the highest since she had been dragged into this mess, and a human female at boiling point was almost certainly not for the weak-hearted to deal with. Luckily for the guards they were well used to dealing with uncooperative prisoners.

Limburger watched the unexpected drama playing out before him with awe. They had never brought her back to the cell awake before now, let alone spitting fire.

The guards were growling at Charley to shut up, be still, be quiet, and everything that you would expect them to say in this situation. The only problem was, and it was such a small oversight it took Limburger himself a second to realise it, their authoritative commands were being issued in native Plutarkian, and the woman had absolutely no idea what they were saying.

_Wow. Wonder what happened for them to bring her back like this?_

The fattened fish waited silently, and patiently, for them to lock her up and go away so that he could finally have a moment to chat with her. Pressing his rubber mask to the bars between their cells, he watched.

They threw her in, they locked the door. They did not leave.

_Oh dear._

The woman was still raging, but now they were free of her they were able to ignore her torrent of verbal insults ranting in their direction, and instead turned their attention to her neighbour.

Limburger's stomach did one heck of a somersault at that point, and he cowered back against the bars by his bunk, thinking if only he could somehow get through them then the wildcat next door would probably rip them to shreds before they could take him.

Of course, even at his thinnest he would never get through the narrow spaces between the steel dividers, and soon he was being cuffed and led away. He looked over his shoulder at the woman who by now had all but gone silent.

She caught the look in his eye, and she knew. It was too late.

Beyond the cell block the frightened fish broke down and cried, begging his jailers to spare him and take him back to his cell. Mostly they ignored his pleas, though one or two barely suppressed a chuckle at their captive's impending fate, and his desperation to avoid it. They had their orders, though, and nothing the masked fish in their grasp could say or do would make a difference.

"Shut up, Limburger." One said, irritated at the non-stop babbling the prisoner was able to spurt out between breaths, "You know you deserve this you useless disgrace of a fish."

Limburger choked back his sobs and fell silent. Mercy was not something his species was familiar with. A small part of him hoped he could annoy the guards enough for them to give him a beating, preferably one bad enough for the doctors to deem him unsuitable for implantation.

Alas for him their patience seemed almost endless, after all his whinings were nothing compared to the violent struggles of the Earth woman they had dealt with earlier. Soon they had him locked on board the transport ship and on his way to the clinic once again.

He sat in his tiny cubicle and despaired. Was there no way out of this hell for him? Had he not been punished enough? Was there nothing he could do to gain their mercy? His freedom?  _A second chance_. To be fair he had had many, many second chances, probably far more than any one on this planet, but then no one but him had had so much ill fortune.

It was tempting to lay all the fault for his predicament on the biker mice, yet deep inside he knew that they were blameless. Equally he knew he wasn't an innocent party, but it still didn't seem fair that things should have turned out the way they did for him.

The minute portal in his cell cubicle allowed him a brief glimpse of the outside, probably one of the few times he would ever see his home planet now. Not that it was much of a view. It was so barren, and desolate, even with the multitude of dwellings filling segments of the land's surface. There were no plants, no animals, nothing; nothing left of the product of evolution on this planet other than his own selfish species. Anything in existence reminiscent of nature's wonders was firmly locked away in museums or zoos, or private collections. Like the one he had back on Earth.

Even though it was late he could still make out the vague, monotonous details of his world. The ground below him, between the buildings, was a sludge of grey and purple, splattered with blotches of toxic yellows where chemical waste had been dumped, or dark mounds of his kind's latest spoils; stolen goods from other worlds that had not yet been completely ruined.

But soon would be. He thought of Mars. He hadn't been assigned there until after the worst of the damage had been done, but even so the brick red sands and rocks, and amber skies with brilliant gold sunsets, and the twinkling of the heavens as the planet turned its face from its star to cloak itself once again in the night.  Even as barren as that place was, it was infinitely more beautiful than here.

Limburger couldn't remember ever seeing the stars from Plutark's surface. It was little wonder his species spent so much time in space, if not to pillage the cosmos then surely to enjoy the simple pleasures of those distance points of ancient light.

And then there was Earth. Still relatively unspoilt, a sparkling gem amongst all others, undeniably the most hospitable of all planets he had yet seem himself. If the Plutarkians don't ever get a hold of it, he mused, then the humans will probably spoil it quite easily all by themselves.  _They just don't know how lucky they are_.

His own planet was now beyond repair. It had been stripped down to its foundations, so far so that it would never recover on its own. And with the very real danger of the already unstable atmosphere crumbling around them, the product of the tug transformer's deadly impact, it was quite likely his wasteful kind might finally get their just deserves.

Extinction. It would be a fitting end to the Plutarkian empire. Sure, there were enough individuals off-world to re-populate somewhere if it did happen, it was just a glaringly obvious injustice that anyone not on the planet's surface was absent because they were out ruining somewhere else. The small number of people who might be classed as guilt-free, having had no direct desire to destroy and steal, no doubt were all living on the doomed world with no easy way off.

_If I had another chance, another life..._

Perhaps he could do more than save his own pathetic life, a wistful idea that had crossed his mind several times recently.

The juddering of the craft as it came to a halt shook him from his thoughts. Swallowing the fluids seeping into his mouth as his nerves flared, he braced himself for what was still to come.

Here he was again, being marched down that sterile corridor, the happiness the place was meant to bring somehow filtered out before it reached him. Somewhere, behind a door in another ward, he could hear the delighted cries of parents-to-be as they were told the good news.

This would never be him. No female would ever want to spawn with him, not even one in urgent need of a brooder. If he had volunteered himself for this role he would have been on just about every single ladies' wish list, desired not just for his new-found ability to hatch the next generation, but for his courage and self-sacrifice.

_Sacrifice. That's all I am now._

As per his last visit, the Lord High Chairman was waiting, rubbing his hands with excited anticipation as his hapless subordinate approached.

"Ah, Limburger. Looking forward to serving your people? To serving me?"

Limburger kept his gaze down, not wanting to give his boss the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. "Yes, Lord Camembert" he mumbled, a tiny spark ignited within him telling him that opening a dialogue might be a better idea than saying nothing.

"Good, good, i'm so glad. Shall we get started then?"

_Already? Wait!_

"Wait!" he yelled suddenly, the words in his mind now finding a voice of their own. "Umm... don't I get to say something first?"

"This is not a trial, Limburger" the High Chairman huffed, impatiently, "You don't need to say anything, your sentence has already been passed."

"But... please your lordship... Please, I..."

Camembert studied the purple-suited man quivering before him. He had never liked the way this fish snivelled at his feet every time he was about to be punished. Worse still, he detested that human-featured rubber mask. It made the fish seem all the more weak and pathetic than he already was.

"Very well but make it quick, my spawn hasn't got the luxury of you spilling your heart and soul in some kind of attempt to get out of this. Speak. Now."

Limburger knew he only had one shot at this. One last try.

"Please, your reeking royalty, I can be useful, I said I would gain the Earth woman's confidence and I have! She is telling me things I know you would want. Intel, the whereabouts of the resistance based in our system... names, people. She knows more than she is letting on, my lord, and I am confident it won't be much longer before she gives me everything. Please, please one last chance, please let me do this for you."

He knew it was bad what he had just done, but what else could he do? The Earth woman probably wasn't ever going to find out. In fact, though this last plea may buy him another few days it was doubtful he ever would get chance to speak to Charley again. Not really, not for long enough to do what he had just offered.

He looked up eagerly at the monstrous leader of his people, currently his judge and jury, hoping for some sign that he might just have gotten through.

The smirk on Camembert's face told him everything.

"Sure, Limburger, you can do that for me if you want. I doubt you will get anything out of her that we don't already know though, but if you think it's worth your time... and you know you will have plenty of that..."

"Pleease! Please your lordship!"

"I'm afraid it's too late to change our plans for today though. You understand, don't you Limburger? You wouldn't want my eggs to die now, would you?"

"No, my lord." The fish's face fell, resigned to his fate.

"Well, now, if you're quite done, I do believe the doctor is waiting."

The procedure was carried out just like the first time. The only difference, if any, aside from his start weight being several hundred pounds higher, was that the chamber inside of him was already stretched. It had shrunk considerably since the spawning, but having not the same elasticity as a natural egg brooder, there was an excess of tissue that would never resume its normal size. Scar tissue.

It still hurt, too, perhaps even more this time. The damage to his passages had not fully healed, and probably wouldn't ever get the chance to now, and so even though they were wider they were not necessarily any easier to penetrate.

It took an hour from start to finish, with all the preparations and measurements included. From where he lay Limburger could have sworn this clutch was larger than the last, as even with a speedier delivery into his chamber it still took nearly half an hour to fill him. He groaned. No wonder they wanted him to fatten up so much.

There was a pause, and then a flurry of excitement. Camembert disappeared into the adjoining room for a few minutes, and through the door the hurried tone of the conversation beyond filtered through.

_His wife must be in there... I wonder what's going on?_

Suddenly the door burst open and the doctors began working frantically once more. Camembert's wife had apparently produced a second batch of eggs.

"They might not be fertile, you understand this Lord Camembert?"

"Yes, yes, I know."

"And you still want to go ahead?"

"Of course I do, you imbecile! They're my spawn! Now get them inside him before they..."

Limburger's eyes widened in horror.  _Not more eggs? Nooo._

It was rare, but it sometimes happened. It was thought to be some kind of throw-back, a way to be sure some eggs survived if something happened to the first batch. It was assumed that the smaller, second clutch would have been dropped in a different pool to the first, a back-up nursery of sorts. Of course nowadays everything was indoors and controlled by machines, and not left to nature to determine their survival. Not that it played much of a role now it had been damaged irredeemably... but the noxious atmosphere was enough to put anyone off trying for a full scale 'natural birth'.

Apparently Camembert's wife was one of those rare few still able to double-lay. Lucky for her. Not so lucky for Limburger.

He could feel one of the nurses at his head, telling him to open his mouth. He felt the cold, smooth surface of the jaw-guard slipping inside and over his pointed teeth. They must have been expecting this to be painful. More painful than what he had already experienced, that is.

They were right, too, because he was already stretched out very far, and his inner organs were by now feeling the pressure. Not to mention the intense discomfort of having a huge hypodermic needle shoved forcefully inside your openings.

Even though the doctors took their time with the implantation of the secondary clutch, it was so excruciating that after screaming his lungs out for a few minutes Limburger passed out.

Later on he woke, alone, still lying on the table, still naked and strapped down with the plastic guard gagging his mouth. He looked about him groggily, unsure at first of what had happened. Then the sight of the much-inflated belly beyond his chin reminded him with agonising clarity.

_Oh no, oh no i'm doomed._

It seemed the doctors had decided to allow him to sleep off his fainting spell rather than haul him unconscious back to the prison. They were most likely waiting for him to come round to check he was fit before entrusting his care to the guards once more. How ironic, he thought dimly, that they want me to be well. Fit for duty.

The pain was still in him, as he knew it would be now for the next month, and his head was still struggling to clear. The table wasn't exactly comfortable to lie on, but he was not in any hurry to return to his filthy mattress. He was quite content to just lay here a while longer... and his brain agreed. The fog was returning, and he was slowly sinking down again...

"It's simply not working, you need to give me a stronger dose."

"You know the risk, I keep telling you. And my job's on the line here."

"We're paying you more than enough to make up for it. You want to spend the rest of your live pandering to snotty parents demanding the right to birth? This is your chance to be part of something big and you know it."

The hissing voices in the next room met his ears and brought him round with a start. It was so quiet in his room it was near impossible to not hear the strange argument on the other side of the door.

"Look. I know fertility means nothing to you, but this job is my life."

"And my job is this planet's life. Our species needs more than to reproduce, we need to be able to live too."

There was a long pause, and Limburger assumed that the woman, no doubt another of the doctors – perhaps even one who had just worked on him – was thinking. The other voice was male, and again he felt vaguely that he might recognise it.

"Alright. We had a donation yesterday, and it's probably already been processed. Give me half an hour and i'll get you what you need."

"Great. I promise you, you are doing the right thing. This woman is so close..."

"I don't want to know."

Another pause, this time for reasons the prone fish could not tell. The topic of their conversation had got him interested though.  _I want to know._

"Who'd have known a mere Earthling would provide us the key to winning this war..." the male voice crooned, breathing each word in a soft, barely audible murmur, "and that the mind-linking would ever come to fruition..."

There was a moan, and more breathing. Limburger frowned. This kind of liaison was highly unusual amongst his kind, and was normally conducted in utmost privacy. These two really were taking quite a risk.

"...and it's all because of you..."

"Yes well... if our assailants hadn't included those mangy mice we would never have made this breakthrough."

It sounded to Limburger like the woman was calling an end to their meeting, and he could hear the sound of throats being cleared, followed by an abrupt exchange of instructions to reconvene at the usual place in half an hour. After that, the door to the next room opened and closed, and silence resumed once more.

The egg-filled fish must have fainted again, because when he next opened his eyes the harsh glare of the lights above him had returned, and he was being pulled to his feet. The doctor asked him a few questions about how he was feeling (which was pretty awful), and then he was given the go-ahead to return to his cell.

Walking whilst filled to the brim with another couple's spawn was not easy, and it took all his concentration to make it back to the ship without falling. They could barely squeeze him back into that tiny box for the journey, and he spent the entire time feeling as though he was about to burst open, or else rupture the solid walls trying to contain him. Such as it was he didn't get the chance to look out the porthole at his dying planet's terrain, so closed his eyes and tried to block everything out; everything from the pain in his belly to the trepidation in his heart.

Finally they arrived at the prison's docking bay, and he was slowly led back to his cell. The way he waddled reminded him somewhat of one of the organisms he had heard of back on Earth; a large bird of the south pole, shuffling around on the frozen continent, its blubber-filled body the only thing to fuel it through the gruelling winter, during which time it also brooded its offspring.

One single egg. One attempt at a the next generation for that year. Not like him and his kind, who could have several tries, and potentially spawn hundreds. He wondered if he would rather be that bird, enduring the cold for several months in the hope that he might one day become a father for his efforts.

_I'll never be a father. Not to my own children._

The sadness crept up inside him, a fountain of emotion. By the time he had reached his cell the water was flowing up and out and then streaming downwards. Another month of misery lay ahead.

It took him a while to pull himself together, and when he did he realised that the silence next door had returned, and that it was not because his neighbour was sleeping.

_They've taken her again? I wonder..._

Remembering the conversation he had overheard from the operating room, he sat up again, staring inwardly. Could it have been Charley they were talking about? It had to be, surely, how many other humans could there be out here? He had never seen any others, not in all the time he had been stationed on Earth had he heard of humans being taken prisoner.

They had been talking about mind-linking... and Martian mice. Well, they said mice, but it had to be Martians. Many amongst his race suspected those fleshy red things sticking out the top of those mice's heads were capable of aiding some sort of telepathic ability, though they had never been able to force a mouse to give up how it all worked. He guessed they learnt from an early age how to control it, and how to block anyone from accessing their mind against their will.

Not that it had stopped them trying.

_Mind-linking... where have I heard that term before?_

Lying wearily down on his tattered bunk, Limburger tried to search the files of his life's memories for the origins of that term. He knew it was something from long ago... before he went to Earth... almost definitely from during his time on Mars.

He wracked his brains. Then he remembered. The project had been abandoned with the invention of the mind-bender beam. They no longer needed a psychic connection to make the mice into slaves now that they had a machine capable of yielding them to their will.

_I guess it wasn't abandoned. Just redirected, or shelved; they must have started it up again. But when, and how, and what does it have to do with Charley?_

There was only one thing he could think of. They must know that Charley was friendly with the biker mice, and that it was very likely they had connected with her at some point or other. She was very close to them after all, and no one gets that close to a Martian mouse without having seen into their mind first.


	25. Reality check

" _Can you confirm, package received?"_

" _Received, as requested. Destination?"_

" _Outpost 738. Recipient on label."_

" _Gotcha. Nice doing business with you General."_

" _Likewise. See you in a year?"_

" _Ha. You should be so lucky. Captain Metis over and out."_

* * *

They guards came, as normal, early in the morning. Plutark's dawn was probably the only redeeming visual quality about this planet, and for some reason this morning the woman had woken in time to appreciate it.

The rising star had not yet breached the horizon, but the polluted atmosphere was awash with an eerie purple glow that faded into a deep crimson as the planet turned, eventually lightening to the soft pastel orange that had become the norm during daylight. Charley almost never saw these hours now, the ones between sunrise and sunset, but she was treated this one single morning to the reverent beauty that was the early celestial glow.

For a few seconds she had stared through the tiny barred window of her cell and bathed in this cool, weak light, enjoying it in silence so as not to wake her slumbering neighbour. She knew he would want to speak to her, desperately, but he looked so peaceful and calm when he slept, so untroubled by their separate, parallel fates that his features softened even through the ugly, rubber mask he wore.

Charley smiled. The Plutarkian on the bunk by the bars between them was sucking his thumb, which whilst odd, verging on cute (if a Plutarkian could ever be thought of as such), was a simple testimony to just how much that grown male needed comfort.

Something she was not able to provide him with right now.

A distant banging of a door alerted her to the hour. They were coming for her yet again, coming to take her to that white-washed basement laboratory with its resident, mute alien and its mysterious experiments.

There was nothing she could do about it, so she waited in silence and let herself be taken without objection. It didn't frighten her anymore, anyway, and besides... she had work to do.

A mission to keep her mind focused on something. Without it she suspected she would have gone insane months ago.

_Months. I wonder how many now. It might even be years._

Limburger had been keeping track, not her, and it had been a while since she had asked him. It had been a while since she had been able to ask him.

The journey to the lab was uneventful. The guards took her as far as the cold, metal table, strapping her down for the alien to work on. Then they left, as they always did, though she knew at some point they would return to move her to the other chamber, and onwards into that other mind. The other mind somewhere out there; her only window to the wider world. Her only hope of freedom.

This morning Charley lay down on that table and waited eagerly to be put under, or whatever it was the alien did to her. She still had not figured out what the machine did with all those arms, other than they were probably some sort of stimulating probes. Very sci-fi, she thought, once again wondering if those people claiming to have been abducted by aliens weren't so crazy after all.

The goggle-like attachment was the only part of the whole set-up she could make any sensible guesses about. Aside from acting as a very effective blindfold, in that tiny moment before it closed off her eyes from the bright light of the lab she was able to make out something flickering inside it.

Again, a picture from another sci-fi scenario crossed her mind. And a flashback to an encounter with one of her ex-boyfriends. Jack McCyber. Him and his virtual reality helmet.

_Perhaps Kalis isn't actually real and this is all some kind of simulation... like a test situation they are putting me though._

It was a sobering thought. For all she knew the Plutarkians sitting there behind their view screens, watching her attempts to talk to her alter ego, were finding it highly amusing that the stupid Earth woman really believed this was all real.

_Either that or I really am crazy. Or dead. Or in a coma. Dreaming._

The possibilities were endless, and she tried hard not to think about all the other equally likely scenarios to her reality because it only served to make her feel more hopeless. And she really needed hope. There had to be someone, something,  _anything_  out there that might provide a way out of this.

She had to believe that or else she might as well just not bother trying, and give up. A tiny voice inside her was the only thing telling her she mustn't.

 _Because of them_.

What, if anything, had happened to her furry friends in her absence was deep down the only thing that really mattered to her. Yes, she cared about what was happening to Limburger, how could she not now she had grown so close to him? Yes, she cared about the wider issues beyond her own discomforts, such as the state of her current host planet and the circumstances surrounding the rebel forces. But these were new concerns, surface cares, and nothing compared to the almost instinctual, maternal bond she had with her alien friends back home.

_Are they even out there? Are they even looking?_

She knew that if they were, they would not give up on her. Their basal beliefs in honour would not allow them to rest until there was nothing left for them to do.

In the meantime, she herself had something to do. She had to concentrate. She had to find out what they were doing to her, if only to confirm her hopes that this was not a simulation, dream, nor state of insanity. That it was very real, that her alter was real and out there, and in danger from the intrusions into her mind. And that this person could help her.

Asking the mute alien what was going on was pointless. She had tried many times, and the only response was it continuing on as if she hadn't made a sound. Then that thing would be shoved into her mouth, the last preparation before the machine was activated, and her protests and questions were stifled once more.

Today was no different, and she slipped into that altered state of consciousness completely unaware of the progression of the following procedures.

It was with some relief that she 'woke up' inside that mouse general's mind. Her fear was that the Plutarkians would figure out what she was doing and find a way to stop it. Or that perhaps she would just never remember it, and flail helplessly around in her cell between sessions, not knowing whether or not she had done something useful or destructive with her out of body trips to that other place.

_Thank goodness she's not asleep this time._

"Kalis, it's me, Charley – i'm back." Her voice was so loud inside the mouse's head this time it made her jump, and the human was aware of her other body's heart beating frantically at the sudden surprise.

"Jeez woman, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

 _Mental note, don't scare the living wits out of my host next time. She's no good to me dead._ Charley couldn't help chuckling to herself as the mouse recovered her composure.

"Oi! I heard that. _Honestly_." Kalis wasn't all that impressed at her mind's intruder laughing at her expense, but she quickly softened. "I suppose you've come to ask me to help you again, haven't you?"

"Well it's not like I get a choice about being here... but seeing as I am... uh, yeah."

Kalis sighed. She really did want to help this woman; after everything that had happened, after all the people who she may as well have sentenced to death, helping this unknown person was something she dearly wished she was in a position to do. But she wasn't.

"You know I can't even leave my quarters, or say anything to you that might be used against this base. I really don't know what I can do."

"What about your commander? Err... Frost? Can't you ask him do try something?"

Charley got the impression that the rat who frequented the General's bed would be quite happy to do anything he could to help the mouse. But getting her to ask him in the first place was a pretty big hurdle.

"It would really help if you could find out what's going on your end first you know. Have you not got any more of an idea how they are doing this? I mean, why is obvious, but  _how_? That's what we really want to know."

"I've told you everything I saw" the human woman huffed, feeling just as frustrated as the body she was in did, "but seeing as I don't even know for sure if this is real and not some sort of drug-induced hallucination..."

"Do they drug you? Definitely?"

"Well I guess so; there's a lot of sharp pointy things on that machine and I always feel like crap when I finally wake up."

_And so tired. I always feel so tired._

"Listen you need to figure out what is going on at your end. Can't you get them to tell you somehow, you know, turn on your feminine charms or something and see if they open up?"

The Martian General had tried this a few times herself, and it did have some success. Sometimes.

"Believe me I have thought of that, and tried it, but it never gets me anywhere. Either they don't speak or they talk in Plutarkian or something."

The General frowned. "I'm guessing you don't know the lingo there huh? Can you remember any of the words? I know a little myself. I should do, been doing this job a long time now."

"I'm sorry, i've no idea." It was really exasperating. Charley dearly wished she had paid much more attention that day she had seen those two Plutarkians in that viewing room.

In her mind Kalis could sense the despair in the other woman's heart. In fact she could practically feel it herself, on top of her own feelings of uselessness and guilt. "Charley don't give up. I promise if there is anything I can do I will try. I..."  _Do I tell her? It might only get her hopes up._

"Please i'm begging you. It's not just for me... It's... i'm not here on my own."

This was news to the Martian mouse. "You're not? Who else?"  _Hope she's not expecting some kind of mass jail break; there's no way I could organise that, not even if I was free to go there in person._

A little reluctantly Charley gave her host a brief explanation about Limburger. She was expecting the General to be appalled, disgusted even that she had gotten so close to someone so vile and unfeeling. But it must have been the way that she spoke, the words that she used to describe the plight of her Plutarkian neighbour, because Kalis did not react negatively at all.

"Hmm. Well you know not all fish are bad. Even the bad ones can be good sometimes. You've seen the ones that work here, right?"

"Yeah. I have. Though I admit I was a little surprised." It was true. Charley had at first assumed the base was under Plutarkian control. "So you'll help him too? Limburger I mean. I couldn't just leave him here, not after everything we've been through, that he's been through."

"Like I said before Charley, if there is anything I can do.  **If**." Kalis decided against letting on to the Earth woman that she had already done everything she was capable of. There was no way of her knowing if it would help, and even if it did it could be months before anything happened. No, there was no point in getting her hopes up just yet. "Just do what you can on your end, you never know you might get an opportunity of your own long before I do."

Charley sighed. The mouse was right. Kalis was already in a difficult position without adding this to her burdens. "I'll try. Thanks, anyway."

There was little else she could say or do to change the General's mind, and right now she really wanted to be alone, back in her cell, and getting some sleep. She could feel her eyes itching, and rubbed them, yawning loudly.

"Uh Charley? You ok?" Kalis could sense the weariness in the other woman.

"Huh? Yeah sorry, despite spending most of my life asleep nowadays I don't feel like i'm getting any rest."

 _I know how that feels._ Kalis continued rubbing her eyes, sympathising with the strong urge to want to get some serious shut-eye. She circled her room for a while, before heading towards the little doorway at the back that led into a small bathroom.

It was only when she had unbuttoned her trousers that it struck her.  _Wait a minute. I don't need to go, I only just went..._

"Charley... by any chance did you... um... or not..?"

Kalis shook her head and pulled her clothing together again. The woman in her mind had gone very quiet all of a sudden, but it was incredibly unnerving that for a moment, just for a moment, she had lost control of her own body.

"Charley? You there?"

But the human voice was absent, and Kalis sensed she was alone once more.

* * *

_I knew I should have gone before they took me._

That urgent ache in her belly was all-consuming, and for a moment she could think of little else – other than the desire to sleep, that is. She had seen the small bathroom briefly once before, and whilst wondering if relieving her host's body would take the pressure off her own, she suddenly realised Kalis was already heading towards the door.

_Oh my. Did I just do that?_

A tiny part of her had noticed the almost synchronised yawn and eye rub she and the General had performed, but dismissed it as merely coincidence. But seeing those grey-furred hands working at the belt and buttons rammed it home.

_I'm in control. Uh oh._

At that same second, the same point at which the realisation dawned in her that she had finally, somehow, moved her host by the will of her own mind, at that same time the connection was severed and she felt herself falling.

Falling to her knees inside the strange, transporter-shaped chamber, her body slumping in exhaustion, her head reeling and spinning from being pulled back to reality.

She felt sick, and weak, and her skin tingled intensely. The sensation was almost like an electric charge running through her surface layers, the tiny hairs on her body stood erect, and her heart and breaths quickened with the current.

And then it was gone, that feeling, and she was left as a shell lacking in any energy.

_What the heck?_

Suddenly there was an eruption of noise. Shouts, footsteps, doors, alarms, everything. The glass door of the chamber opened with a hissing swoosh, the equilibrium between the air inside and out returning, and green-scaled hands were reaching in and dragging her to her feet.

There was a lot of urgent chatter between the guards, much of which sounded like accusations and commands, and excuses. From their reaction is was apparent that the woman was not meant to have awoken. Not here, not now.

Charley tried her very best to make sense of it, of why they were so panicked, and of why she was conscious when she normally wouldn't be. She tried to catch at least one word she could hold onto and relay back to her alter body. Something to indicate to them both just what the hell was going on. It wasn't easy. Her mind was foggy, her body still drugged, and everything around her was happening so fast. She hadn't even realised the guards were frantically ripping off that military uniform and pulling her into her normal clothes.

They carried her out of the chamber and through that adjoining room with the screens. The one holding her paused to talk hurriedly to another guard, and for a few seconds her eyes fell on the monitors on the wall.

As far as she could tell, from what was on screen, they had not seen the mouse going into the bunk-room's en-suite. In fact, the video looked like it was on pause, and had frozen on a picture of the control room that Charley had seen many times before. But not today. Not for a while.

_Is that a recording of an earlier visit? Where's the one of today?_

The guard started walking, and something inside her ignited. All the drugs in the world would not stop her now.

Charley launched herself from the arms she was cradled in, and dived towards the panels below the view screens. Everything she knew about electronics, mechanics, alien technology, all of it in its entirety came flooding back to her for those few seconds that she had, and she frantically pressed buttons on the computer before they could pull her away again.

Kicking and screaming she was yanked backwards, but she fought them so ferociously it bought her enough time to take a mental photograph of what she was seeing.

She had managed to press the equivalent of the play button, but not just for the tape that had just been paused, but for a number of other recordings of her forays into the General's mind.

Charley wasn't stupid. She may not have been able to speak or read Plutarkian, but it didn't take a genius to recognise the recordings were in date order. She had just opened the files on the three most recent entries to the database, and not a single one indicated that Charley was communicating with the mouse. In fact, from what she could remember of her visits, at moments that would have given it all away there was just static, the picture resuming only when Charley had felt the connection weaken.

_They haven't been able to get anything for weeks now._

Eventually the guards got control of her, and she was hauled back to her cell. She too hoped they would leave her alone with Limburger so that she could tell him what had happened, but when she saw them cuffing the fear-filled fish and leading him away, she knew that her efforts had been in vain.

Help would not come in time to save him from suffering a second round of brooding.

Charley paced her own cell for the next few hours, apparently either having shaken off the sedatives or else had filled with enough adrenalin to cancel out their effects. She couldn't help the guilt building inside her heart, but equally there was excitement lurking in there too.

_I got control. Maybe I can force Kalis to help me._

Desperation was driving her to want to do the unthinkable. To sacrifice the safety of the rebel base for her own gains. It was very wrong, she knew, but she was a smart woman and felt confident that she could do it with minimal damage to her host.

In fact she was more confident now than ever. The longer she thought about what she had seen on those screens, the more she wanted to try it. For if she had guessed correctly, the greater the control she had over the connection between the General and her own body, the less the Plutarkians had over what information was getting through. The clearer it was for her, the opposite was true for them.

Or so she hoped. Because if she was wrong, then the next time she entered that mouse general's mind could be her last.

* * *

_Well that was weird. And scary._

Her military instincts were poking at her hard, and the only thing Kalis could think of to do right now was confide in the only person who might vaguely understand.

"Frost, can I see you in my quarters?"

The soft, masculine voice of the rat replied to her through her room's intercom, and a minute later he appeared in her doorway.

"You alright Kalis?" He didn't need to ask to know something had happened, but it was a courtesy he usually extended rather than just open his arms and drag her straight into an embrace. With the way her moods were sometimes, that would be an almost suicidal way to greet the General, girlfriend or not.

"I... I don't know. Something happened, something weird."

She was giving him an odd look, one that said she was torn between opening up to him, and closing herself down so completely that no one would see just how frightened she was.

He could read the distress and the indecision on her face, and stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. "It's alright, you can tell me - whatever it is."

Next second she was in his arms, grasping onto him tightly, her face buried into his chest and into the fur showing between the edges of his jacket. "I just feel so helpless..." She began, before dissolving into tears.

"Shhh... Shhh now I know it's hard. Tell me what's going on; has it got something to do with your dreams, with that woman?"

Frost cuddled the crying mouse and waited patiently for her to speak. Eventually she did, and between choking breaths she described everything that had just happened whilst the human woman had been in her mind.

The rat frowned, and sat himself and the mouse down on the edge of the bed. Having the human seeing what Kalis could was dangerous enough, especially if there were Plutarkians observing their interactions, but her actually having control over her host, conscious control quite possibly...

Then again, he thought, since the human had opened up a dialogue their operations had been running much smoother. It might have just been because Kalis was spending nearly all her time in her quarters, but if there was technology out there sophisticated enough to get one mind inside another, minds of two people who have never met and who were probably miles and miles away from each other, then what's to stop them just delving into Kalis's memories and using that as all the intel they would ever need?

"Kalis. I know you feel helpless right now, and I know you hate being stuck here in your room all day but..." He took a deep breath, not wanting to upset the woman any more than she was. "But you need to try and stop that human getting into your mind. It's dangerous. She could be trying to gain your confidence and lure you into saying something you shouldn't. You have to put a stop to this, and fast."

Frost pushed her away from his chest but held her firmly and at arm's length. He stared into her emerald eyes, sternly, hoping to get across the severity of the situation.

"You're a Martian mouse. You're trained to stop intrusions in your mind. For some reason they got by your natural defences, but now you know you have to do it again. Build another barrier. Keep those rotten spies from getting too far in before it's too late."

Kalis lowered her eyes. "It may already be too late."

"Then you need to do it before any more damage is done. You understand, don't you? It's your duty to protect the people under your command. You have to do this."

The mouse swallowed, clearly miserable. She could understand, agree even, with what the rat was saying to her, but the desperation and fear and hopelessness she had sensed when she had spoken to Charley – she knew those emotions were not her own. And that they were genuine. Or at least that's how they felt.

"What if she's not working for them, not of her own free will? If I cut her off she might never find a way out of that stink-fish hell hole."

"Look, blocking her from your mind now will do more good than harm. Trust me. And if she really is in trouble, when things settle down we can send out some scouts next time we have a mission scheduled on the surface."

Kalis knew the rat was just trying to convince her, and console her, but it didn't make it any easier. "By then it might be too late for her too. "

Frost hugged her again, knowing that this whole situation was less than ideal. "I know. But what else can we do? We're at war, and until that's over life's not going to get any easier. The choices we have to make aren't going to get any easier."

The General nodded, wishing there as another way. "You're right. I'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's ok, I understand. But the sooner you do this, the sooner you can get back to active duty, and doing some real work for a change. And maybe, just maybe, we can figure out how to save that human woman."

She allowed herself a small smile. He always knew what to do; that's why she loved him. That's why he was her second in command.

Kalis decided she would spend the next few hours re-learning the ancient skill of closing her mind, something she had not had to do for a long, long time. Usually once the barriers were in place, controlling what information passed between antennal connections was second nature, and needed no further conscious effort. As the breach to her mind must have been fairly skilfully done, and powerful, it was going to take a huge amount of concentration to close it again.

"I'm going to need some time alone, Frost. No disturbances. See to that, would you?"

"Yes Sir." He grinned, kissing her on the nose. "I'll be back to check on you... in the morning?"

"That's great. I should be all done by then." Kalis winked. "And then you better be on your best behaviour, because the General's going to be back on duty for real."

A flutter of excitement went through her. Having her life go back to normal was what she wanted more than anything right now, and making the decision to block out the intrusions into her mind suddenly felt like the right thing to do.

For everyone's sakes, she hoped it was.


	26. The Mouse Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of history, focused on our mysterious ex-slave Wes.

The thick stench loading the air was nearly overwhelming, and the raucous laughter sawed through him with a dull-edged blade. All he had to do was lower his face to the soiled rubber sole in front of him and it would all be over. All he had to do was demean himself in front of the mass of howling spectators and allow his senses to embrace the vileness before him, whilst at the same time permitting his last shred of dignity to be taken.

The whiplash across his back was driving him to a decision. He knew he had to do it; he knew that it wasn't worth the misery that would follow if he fought, but it was so very hard to let go. To just let go and allow himself to be swallowed entirely by submission, and enter wholly into a lifetime of servitude.

All he had to do was bend forwards a little further, and it would all be over. His life would be over. He would no longer be a free man.

He had taken too long to decide and the lashes began to rain down, their broken rhythm augmented by the chorus in his ears, both of which were soon replaced by the soft tapping sound of fluid on his back. The dribble became a torrent, and his nostrils were permeated by the acrid whiff of diluted ammonia wastes.

They would continue to torment him like this until he broke. That was all they wanted from him, and they would not stop finding ways to hurt and humiliate him until he did. Not unless he found another way around this.

"Wait!" He cried, trying not to sound too desperate, though half failing as the choking sobs forced their way out between his words. "No! No, wait!"

The auburn-bearded goon hesitated, the stick in his hand hovering midway to his shoulder. He had made it especially for this occasion, a good way to recycle an old broom handle by coiling its entire length with barbed wire.

"Please, please... master... I"

The Pit Boss leaned forwards on his throne and looked curiously at the bloodied, dirtied figure at his feet. "Something to say, slave?"

"Yes, yes master, please..."

Flint was still waiting to be allowed his fun, and glared down impatiently at the man cowering on the floor. "Speak up, Wes, we haven't got all day..."

* * *

From his straw bed in the workshop he could hear a soft whimpering nearby. It was the sort of sound he might expect to hear down here, even in the relative comfort of this little building. It was obvious the man was dreaming, for a few minutes earlier it had been a muffled snoring that had reached his ears, and not the stifled cries of someone in fear. Or pain. The typical noises of someone who was a slave down here in the dark and despairing depths of the pits.

Vinnie had only managed a few hours of sleep himself before he came round, and it wasn't because of the sleeping man's nocturnal voicing. Even with the medicine he had been given he still felt terrible, and though the temperature in the workshop had cooled off considerably since the forge had been doused, his own body temperature was more than high enough to make up for it.

With his tail he had pulled the woollen blanket from his body, and lay there drenched in steaming sweat, his only company in this misery being his carer resting fitfully in the back room.

He wondered if his should try to wake him. By the kind of nightmares he himself had experienced during his time here, he figured it would be a kindness to end the suffering the man was apparently re-living. But then again, even if he was able to stand and somehow access the man's private quarters, it would be taking a huge risk to go in there and interrupt him.

For all he knew, Wes might wake up and see his intrusion as an act of disobedience, and have him punished for it. Perhaps even punish him himself. Yes, the latter was more likely, he thought, as he doubted the welder would want any of the other guards getting involved in his affairs.

So Vinnie lay his head back down and tried his best to ignore the frightened sounds beyond the door, and the pain in his guts, and the fever slowly taking over him. It wasn't easy... but in a way he was used to it all, now, having suffered with it for so very long already.

* * *

Wes hadn't yet heard the metallic beep of his tiny alarm clock, and so couldn't understand why he was even awake. His normal rhythms usually roused him about five minutes before the set time, which was quite a feat considering he had no natural light to aid his body's diurnal cycles. It was only half five, according to the little wind-up clock on the stool by his armchair, which meant he had lost half an hour of his precious little resting time. There was no way he would be able to fall asleep again and reclaim those thirty minutes now.

Irritated, he decided to get up and make the best use of this extra time in his day, but before he could even think of what way that might be the reason for his interrupted slumber made itself known. Someone was banging on his door.

_Fuck. What could they possibly want at this hour?_

Depending on who it was hammering to get in would answer that question. If it was one of the guards, it might be because something had occurred during the night shift that they wanted him to attend to. It didn't happen that often, but when the guards got bored on duty sometimes they had matters that needed 'clearing up' before the day shift found out what they had been up to.

If it was one of the other goons, the ones who didn't bother getting involved in the slave mine and prison, then they were probably just drunk and looking for somewhere warm to sleep it off. That had happened a few times too. And he knew better than to turn them away, no matter how obnoxious or sickly they were.

If it was Flint, or that other moron who liked to emulate the head goon's every move, then this was probably just another attempt to show him who was boss. In which case, he'd probably be in trouble just for locking his door, and subsequently not getting it open fast enough.

If it was the Pit Boss himself? Well, he didn't want to think what could be required of him this time.

As Wes pulled back the bolt to allow entry to his visitor, he took a long, deep breath to steady his nerves, and exhaled again as the door was slowly pulled open.

It was one of the night shift.  _Thank god_.

"Sorry to disturb you so early Wes, but I really need your help."

Even better, it was one of the guards who didn't treat him like dirt. He decided to play it nice, because allies were everything in this place – no matter how annoying the things he had to put up with just to keep them on his side.

"No problem, what can I do for you?"

It wasn't anything too serious, this time; the guard had gotten a little over zealous whilst trying not to die of boredom on shift, and having consumed his week's ration of cheap cider in one night, he had slipped over and cut himself on the rough rock beside the mine. Rather than have to answer awkward questions about the injury for the doctor, and rather than take his chances with whatever bacteria might have embedded into the wound, the man had opted to seek out the softer option.

Whatever had led the crew, be they goon or guard, to think he was medically certified in anyway was beyond him, but they seemed to prefer him to take care of minor issues like this than go and face the official medic employed by their boss.

It was just a damn good job he had aced first aid training before his enslavement, and with that plus a little bit of improvisation, guesswork and such like, and sneaking into the doctor's office from time to time for a bit of extra-curricular research, he was able to tackle most of what the men turning up on his doorstep had to offer.

"Next time you might want to think about reading a book. Much safer than booze, unless of course you are prone to paper cuts." Wes winked at the guard, reassuring him that he would not be letting on to the Pit Boss about this particular incident.

"Thanks Wes, i'll remember that." With a sheepish look on his face the night guard left the workshop, his hand cleaned and bandaged, and his stomach laced with tonic. One of the welder's concoctions guaranteed to negate the after-effects of an alcoholic binge.

He had had to deal with such a variety of maladies in his time here his medicine cabinet now resembled something like a nineteenth century apothecary.

Wes was just grateful this morning he hadn't had to deal with something more serious, which mostly involved slaves having been abused by frustrated prison staff. He shuddered. There was only so much he could do, and one day when he had been presented with a slave that had clearly been severely beaten, he had risked the same fate by telling them he had to go to the real doctor if they wanted him to live.

Needless to say, the slave's body had been found in the mine the next morning, and his death blamed on him having tried to escape in the night and losing his footing in the pit.

Not that the day shift really cared; slaves died all the time in the night, and it was very rare that the doctor would be called if one should ever get sick.

The fact that he now had one slave recuperating in his shop was really quite astounding. The same one who had also spent two weeks on a drip in the castle dungeons. It was well known that the Pit Boss valued the rodent-like slaves above any others he had ever had before, so it had taken little persuasion to convince the man to not punish the white mouse by leaving him to die.

The doc hadn't been all that pleased at being asked to treat a slave, let alone an _animal_ , and after the first time he had made it known to Wes that he was 'no damn vet' and that he had better things to do than be wasting his expensive medical supplies on sick rats.

Wes glanced down at the furred creature curled up in the corner of his building. He never could have expected his life to turn out like this. Being made into a slave was one huge downward turn that had hit him out of nowhere, but being appointed the carer of what must have been an alien, or else a genetics' experiment gone wrong... It was so implausible it was practically laughable.

Yet here he was, and there it was, and there was no turning back now.

_Hmm. He still looks like crap. Probably will for a long while too._

Noticing how the ailing mouse had thrown off his blanket, Wes grabbed hold of his first aid kit and knelt down on the straw. His thermometer came back with the same high reading as the previous night, and from the dewy glint on the mouse's fur, and the shivering, he knew that the fever was still on a full-on rampage.

The nasogastric tube was still in place, so it didn't take long to deliver another dose of medicine. His patient stirred, though it wasn't clear if he had been awake the whole time or not. The crusty deposits had reformed on his eyes and sealed them shut, and Wes retrieved a damp cloth to clean them off once more.

"Guess I'd better not turn the boiler on just yet huh? Not unless I want cooked mouse for breakfast." Vinnie groaned, the very mention of food not helping his aching gullet one bit. "Speaking of which, i'm starving" the man then commented idly, standing himself back up to go and take a look in his stores.

There wasn't a great deal in the way of food in his house, and he usually had to supplement his diet with leftovers from the castle's dining room. Luckily he was on good terms with the prison chef, and managed to get at the food before it got lumped together in the rather unpalatable mash delivered to the slave colony.

Aside from that, he had a few boxes of oatmeal, some tins of fruit and meats, instant coffee, some powdered milk, and a reasonable supply of clean, hot water.

"Let's see. Something easy on the stomach. How about... porridge?"

The mouse groaned again, and Wes chuckled. Despite what was probably a protest from his patient this was a good choice, he thought, because it would be filling, easy to deliver, and with a dash of added sugar and crushed vitamin supplements it would be a perfect starter food for the near-starved slave in his care.

And he could give it to him warm. Something he doubted the mouse had had in a very long time.

"Here we are then little mouse, this will fix you up just right." He couldn't help thinking he was glad of the antiemetic powder he had also stolen from the doctor. Having someone regurgitate when their mouth was locked shut was not something he fancied tackling this early in the morning.

Wes sat back with a satisfied smile once the syringe-full of warmed oats had been delivered, and though the mouse was writhing with discomfort at having his belly filled, he knew it was necessary to get him back in shape as quickly as possible. At any moment his duty of care could be relinquished and the poorly prisoner returned to his cage to suffer the rest of his punishment.

His own bowl of porridge was eaten slowly, and he sat watching the mouse from the stool on which he was now perched. Contemplating. His eyes wandered to the row of notches cut roughly into the edge of his desk. By his last count there had been forty-seven. Now the mouse was out of the overflow he wouldn't be marking the desk today, not unless they took him back again. He was still thirteen days short, and if the Pit Boss felt like it he could make sure he was not cheated out of another fortnight torturing his disobedient slave.

Mind you, he might get thrown back in there regardless. It was impossible to tell what it was the Pit Boss really wanted, and even his own crew were careful not to ever second guess him.

With his breakfast finished, rounded off with a cup of black coffee, the metal working man pulled on his apron and poured over the list of tasks he had been set for today. Mostly he was given repairs to do, more often than not on parts of the crew's motor vehicles, but also frequently on mining equipment and slave-related items. Today there was nothing big like car repairs, but his list was filled with an assortment of oddities which included several sets of new shackles, and a replacement set of iron loops in one of the dungeon cells.

Just how those loops even came loose he couldn't imagine, because none of the slaves unfortunate enough to spend a night down in the castle's depths were strong enough. Heck, they could barely even stand half of the time.

_Hmmm. Must have got in some new prisoners._

There was also a timed entry on his schedule, a job up in the throne room. It didn't say what, nor even what he would need, which usually meant he had to be prepared for just about anything. Like that day when the mice got brought in. He never would have guessed he would be welding shut a laser cannon on a robotic arm that day.

With one eye on his charge, Wes lit his forge and began working his way through his task-list. He stopped after an hour to check the mouse wasn't getting heatstroke, but the medicine seemed to be doing its job and he carried on his work, losing himself in the orange glow from the coals and the magnesium spark of his blow torch. As hard as it was on his body, he found his role as ironmonger quite therapeutic. It was certainly better than working in the mine, he had decided.

Sometime in the mid-morning he stopped for a break, and after topping himself up with caffeine he stooped over to check once again on his patient. As he began to kneel down he knew at once the oaty breakfast had already made its way through, and frowning at the bad-smelling mess staining the straw, he heaved the mouse up and took him through to the back room.

"Sorry little mouse, there's no hot water right now" he said, lowering Vinnie into the empty metal tub. "I'll just give you a wipe down, but it's going to be a cold one"  _Which will probably do him good with the heat coming off him._

He winced at the chilled water in the bucket, knowing that this was not going to be a pleasant experience for his charge. He was right, too, because Vinnie moaned loudly as the cold cloth passed over his fevered body. But it was necessary. There was no way he was having his workshop stinking of shit all day long.

"Right, you're clean. Guess you better stay here whilst I sort out your bed."

There was only a limited amount of straw he could get his hands on, so once he had cleared up the soiled bedding he decided the best option was to site the mouse's rear end on something more easy to replace. He had quite a good stack of old newspapers, which he mostly used for lighting the boiler and stove, so he spread out a few before lying the shivering white mouse back down.

_Would have been useful to have some of those adult diapers or something._

Not that he really wanted to spend all of his time cleaning up other slave's backsides, but he did wonder if it was indeed something the doc had lurking in his office somewhere.

_Pit Boss would love that. How better way to humiliate your prisoners?_

Just that one thought alone was enough to put him off ever asking the pit doctor if he catered for slaves with incontinence issues.

"Looks like you've cooled off quite nicely." Wes smiled a little as he re-tucked the mouse under his blanket, who responded by nuzzling the fabric with his snout and making soft purring noises in his throat. "That's a boy, you get some sleep now – you've got a lot of catching up to do."

His nursing duties done for the moment, the welder focused himself back on his chores and did not stop again until something else forced him to. Another unwelcome interruption.

It was a small mercy it wasn't Flint barging through his wooden door, but instead another of the crew. One of Pit Boss's goons rather than one of the prison mine guards.

And he hadn't come alone. Trailing forlornly behind him was one of the slaves, and as soon as the welder saw who it was he knew that the word was out.

"Pit Boss sent you another, wants to you fix him before his next session." The goon was smirking, and tugging harshly on the chain attached to the following prisoner.

"Right. Fix him?"

The goon responded to his query by pointing downwards, a huge grin on his face. "Yeah, fix him. Apparently he isn't working right or something. Boss said you would know what to do."

Wes sighed, and looking at the sore flesh of the slave before him he couldn't help the heavy pang of guilt in his stomach. The grey mouse had been stuck with his private parts exposed for so long now it was clear that the dried, flaking skin was only the surface of the agony he was experiencing.

"I see. When exactly did he want him 'fixed' by?"

"Ha. Who knows, could be next week, could be in half an hour. Probably best you tell him how long you need, and expect him to undercut you by ninety percent."

Wes grimaced. From what he could see the mouse was probably never going to be fit for the kind of duties the Pit Boss required of him. His master had all but ruined his plaything, but Wes knew better than to say so out loud.

He took the leash from the goon's grip and gave him a curt nod. "I'll radio him within the hour."

"You do that. Be seeing you,  _mouse doctor_."

Great, he thought, just what I need.  _Another label, another set of duties_.

It wasn't that he minded, really. Helping the three furred captives stay alive was probably the only way of redeeming himself from all the other things he had had to do down here. But it was extra work on top of his already enormous load, and he just knew that some of the crew would be looking for any sign he wasn't keeping up with his duties. Any excuse to see him punished and thrown back into the mine.

It wasn't often that a slave negotiated his way out of being beaten, let alone out of serving out the rest of his life in hard labour. Indeed he was sure from the reactions of the pit crew that he might have been the first and, sadly, probably the last to have ever done so. Usually, as in always, it didn't matter what skills the person possessed before they were captured. Once a slave, they weren't a person anymore, and the Pit Boss didn't care about anything beyond them doing as they were told. And if they weren't fit to work in the mine... then they weren't fit for anything else.

It was just by some luck that Wes had 'overheard' that the crew member who worked in the forge had got himself shot or something, and there was an opening for someone of that skill to take his place. There was probably someone else in the crew who might have done the job, though maybe not as good as he, but as he had nothing else to lose he thought it was worth taking a chance and offering himself up for the role.

Technically he was still a slave, but the Pit Boss must have admired his guts, or else was feeling indulgent, and somehow, by some sheer miracle, he had got himself out of the mine and into his master's good books. And then spent the next five years trying his hardest to stay there.

The mice were severely testing his ability to keep this fragile position he had intact.

Pulling gently on the metal leash, Wes guided his new patient towards the back wall; the one opposite from the bed-ridden white mouse. He attached the chain to another of those tethering loops (there were several around the shop, as sometimes he had whole batches of new slaves to get kitted out in their metal garments) and bent down to examine the grey mouse and assess the extent of the damage. The damage he had caused.

"Jesus." he exclaimed softly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Not only did it look bad, it smelled pretty awful too. "I'd say there's some infection here in the very least."

Modo just stood there, his head down, his eyes blank and expressionless. It looked as though he was beyond caring, until that is he felt the rough, scarred hands of the man at his flank touching him just where it hurt the most.

He yelped shrilly, and shifted from side to side trying to redirect the searing pain to his work-tired feet.

"Easy, fella, I know this hurts like fuck knows what, but I have to take a look at it." His voice was stern, but still gentle, and the whimpering mouse stilled. "That's right. Just hold still now."

There was nothing for it, he was going to have to release the shaft from the ring and allow the natural moistness of the sheath to repair the damage. Or at least some of it.

First he had to find something in his cabinet to get the process started. He pulled out a variety of ointments, and rifled through them until he selected just the one he was sure would work the best, and then grabbed the first aid box from the desk before settling down on a stool beside the injured mouse.

_For goodness sake, did they have to whip him there too?_

Wes rubbed his chin, trying to think of the best way to do this. Stooping down like a dairy maid was not going to do his back or neck any good, so he opted for getting the mouse onto his back, and hooking his legs out of the way with some chains and the pulley dangling from his ceiling.

That accomplished, Wes spent the next hour stitching, bathing, soothing and then finally releasing the male mouse's exposed shaft, praying hard that it would heal enough to still function. He doubted it would ever be the same again.

"Dammit!" he cursed aloud, both for what had happened to the mouse at his suggestion, and also because he had forgotten to radio the Pit Boss.

He grabbed his portable and went outside to make the call. Suddenly his mouth had gone very dry, for as nerve wracking as it was talking to his master when he had good news, the situation with the mouse was very likely to cause some unpleasant ructions.

"This is Wes for the Pit Boss, over."

The response was immediate. "When do I get my mouse back?"

_Great. No guessing who is in for a major tongue lashing now._

"I'm sorry sir, but if you want him fully functional he's going to need..."

"Get to the point Wes. How long? The gruff voice interrupted before he could explain the severity of the situation.

"Weeks, at least." There was a stony silence over the radio, and Wes swallowed hard wondering if he had pushed his status too far this time. When his master spoke again it took him completely by surprise.

"Very well. So long as he is fit to return to the mine by tomorrow."

"Yes sir, no problem with that."

There was nothing further from the Pit Boss, and Wes breathed a deep sigh of relief. He returned to his shop, and caught the eye of the white mouse - who had obviously awoken whilst he was outside and was now squinting curiously at the other end of the room.

It was hard to tell if Modo had noticed his smaller bro lying only a few metres away from him, but if he had he didn't let on. He didn't look at him whatsoever, but just stood there, his dull eyes to the floor. He didn't even respond to the welder's re-entry.

Wes frowned. A couple of months ago the two mice looked as though they would die of despair if they were even separated for a few hours, but now, from the look on the white mouse's face; the slight curling of his sewn lips into what might be called a snarl, coupled with the wetness streaming down his cheeks...

_Damn the Pit Boss and his sadistic whims._

It was bad enough what he had done to break the smallest mouse, but apparently his master had also succeeded in tearing apart the precious bond between the three furred beings, leaving what appeared to be indifference on one side, and resentment on the other.

Another awful thought flashed through his mind. How long before he was tending to the tortured body of the third mouse? Now that these two were out of action, there was only one left for the Pit Boss to torment – which also explained why he wasn't really that desperate to get the grey rodent back at his feet.

"Damn him" he said aloud, kicking over the empty bucket beside the forge.

Before his frustrations could distract him further, he radioed one of the prison guards to come and collect the second mouse. There wasn't much else he could do right now, somehow he had managed to tuck the shaft back into its internal pouch, and used a single stitch to hold it there for the time being. He would have to cleanse it and reapply the salve once a day, but the rest of the recovery would be down to time.

After telling the guard that no one was to even think about touching the mouse between his legs, unless they wanted the Pit boss on their backs for setting back the healing process in his favourite toy, Wes shut the door to his building with relief.

But it was short lived. He still had a long list of tasks to perform, and that included the visit to the castle. He had one hour before that, which he was now dreading, so to take his mind of his worries he threw himself back into his work.

At the allotted time he gathered up his tool bag and hurried over to the still unfinished home of his master. Mercifully, the Pit Boss did not remonstrate him for the business with the two mice, and all Wes was required to do was provide some interesting ways of... securing... two new slaves the Pit Boss was 'inducting'. He was also to brand them, but that would be done the following morning, as was now customary. In fact, ever since the mice had been slaves, and then been rescued, branding became something of an obsession with the Pit Boss.

Wes had had to burn the flesh of every single slave in the entire prison.

Once back at his shop he resumed his other tasks, pausing only to relieve himself and to check on the sleeping mouse. The spot lights in the pits eventually began to go out, replaced by the lamps and torches and candles, leaving the prison in an eerie, flickering glow. Inside the shop the electric bulbs dimmed, and by the light of the forge Wes lit his own lamps so that he could continue his work.

It was at this time he sometimes envied the other slaves. They would all be locked away now, eating, sleeping,  _resting_. But him? He had to keep going until all his jobs were done, even if it meant working through the night. At some point in the evening someone would deliver him a new list, and so it would go on. Day after day, night after night.

Tonight he was working late simply because of all the interruptions, and not because the list itself was particularly long.

Just as he finished his last item (repairing a lock on a cell door), just as he finally sat down for the first time in several hours, and just as he was contemplating what to feed himself (and his patient) that evening, there was yet another knock on his door.

It wasn't locked yet, and before he could even stand it was open.

And there was Flint. And his second, Cob. The worst possible visitors he could have right now, if ever.

"No, no, don't get up on behalf of us, Wes. We'll just see ourselves in shall we, and make ourselves at home." The smirk on Flint's face sent warning bells off in the welder's mind. He knew this house call was not merely business.

Cob looked equally eager to add to the tense atmosphere with his own leering grin, stepping in behind Flint and filling the small space between them and the forge. "Got you your schedule for tomorrow, looks like you're going to be reeeaaaally busy."

They both sniggered as the list in question was handed over. Wes did a very good job of not letting on how deeply worried he was by his workload, nor by the consequences of failing to get through it all.

Looking at the pair of them it was clear the Pit Boss favoured goons who appeared just as intimidating as they acted. Cob was around the same height as the other man, and equally well built, with muscles bulging just about everywhere possible, and the same meanness featured on his face. He looked like some kind of demented body builder with the way he was sneering down at the smaller man, his blonde hair and baby blue eyes being the only thing out of place for one of the pit crew's typically hard-man standards.

"What else can I do for you gents?" Wes managed, speaking as calmly as he possibly could considering he knew exactly what was coming.

"Oh you know, the usual." Flint flashed a smile from behind his beard, and gave the other goon a sideways look.

"Yeah. We hear you've got some new toys for us to play with in here. Or make that, new  _toy_."

Wes's eyes narrowed. "He's not ready for you. You're out of luck,  _gents_."

"You're forgetting yourself, Wes." The warning was enough to make the welder's stomach tumble, but he remained firm on his stance, and placed himself bodily between the two goons and the terrified mouse at his feet.

"I told you, he is not ready. Not unless you want to get your pretty little selves all messed up now." He knew that the jibe was almost suicidal, but he did enjoy the somewhat embarrassed look on their faces nonetheless.

Flint huffed, feeling the slight flush in his cheeks at the smaller man's implications. Then his eyes hardened again, and he took a step towards the mound of straw. "We can clean ourselves up. Now out of the way."

"You won't be cleaning up anything with your heads down the toilet, you idiots." Wes hissed, not budging an inch. "The mouse has been living in the pit's sewer for near enough two months – either of you want to take a chance catching whatever bugs he has managed to get in that time?"

Cob grimaced and put a hand on his superior's shoulder. "Maybe he's right, Flint. Don't know what kind of plague that rat might be carrying."

"Fine." Flint shrugged the hand away, but did not step back from his current position. The pitch of his voice heightened ever so slightly as he cocked his head to one side and gave the welder another long look. A predatory look. "I guess if the mouse isn't available..."

Wes paled. It had been a while since the last time, but he knew precisely what Flint had in mind. And he knew better than to argue, either.

"Come through to the back..." he whispered, leading the way to beyond the interior door.

* * *

Vinnie lay on his bedding with his eyes tight shut. It had been a very strange and confusing day for him, and he half wondered if it had all been some kind of drug or fever-induced hallucination. First there had been the drunken guard practically begging Wes to help him. Then there had been Modo. He didn't even want to think about that, about his so-called bro completely ignoring him, but he had been intrigued at what he had heard Wes saying on his radio. And now. Now there was this.

Wes could have easily allowed the two thugs to take advantage of his helpless guest, as he had done the last times Flint had wanted to have some fun. But he hadn't, he had stood between them and him, and effectively blocked them from doing anything more than glare menacingly.

And then he had taken his place.

Vinnie wondered how often the welder had been visited by these men, or others, late at night when everyone else slept; them barging into the modest dwelling just at the point when they knew the man would be at his weakest, and least likely to resist. Wes had worked so very hard that day, every day probably, and by the perpetual bags under his eyes it was clear he was exhausted.

But before the man could even take the weight off his feet he had been given one more gruelling task to perform.

The mouse cringed at the noises from the other side of the door. Not unlike those from that morning, when in the early hours the same whimpers and cries had issued from the sleeping man, who even whilst at rest was still not free from his pains. And having twice been the object of Flint's twisted desires, Vinnie did not have to guess much to know what was going on in the back room. The men had already been unbuckling their belts even before having been persuaded to focus their attentions away from the mouse, and onto his carer.

The cries grew louder, as did the dull thuds and accompanying sounds of satisfaction. Vinnie squirmed uncomfortably. As bad as things were for him, and for his two bros, he knew it was nothing really. Nothing compared to what the slight-framed welder must have had to endure, day after day, months after month, year after year after year. Vinnie had no doubt it had been years, and from what he had seen in this one, single day it was clear the poor man had found himself doing literally  _anything_  he could simply to survive, and to keep himself out of the mine and in this workshop, and earn himself a place above all others.

For his sacrifices, and his service, Wes was no longer just a slave. He was a welder, a metal-worker, a sculptor of iron. He was a tool for the Pit Boss's whims; a torturer, and an executioner. He was a confident of the guards, a medic, and a healer. And now mouse doctor.

And yet he was still a slave, and even long after the two men had left the little dwelling Vinnie could hear him weeping, having been put in his place once again.


	27. Barriers

" _This is guard 010396."_

" _Bring the Earthling to the lab immediately."_

" _But Sir, I thought..."_

" _Things will proceed as planned. Bring the human now."_

" _As you wish sir. 010396 en-route with prisoner."_

* * *

It had been nearly eight years since they first met; stationed on Aries minor outpost six, together they were part of the first wave of off-world, undercover reconnaissance missions that were starting to venture beyond the solar system. They had both been soldiers back then, him mid-level and she just reaching unit commander. Neither were interested in climbing the ranks at that stage, there was too much else going on to worry about promotions. Such as being newly partnered within their ops team. It wasn't easy for either of them, they were barely getting along as it was, for the mistrust that had developed between the two Martian races ran deep, and had only worsened as the war went on.

Being one of the very few rats that had elected to join the freedom fighters, Frost had taken a considerable leap of faith in trusting his life to his new comrade-in-arms. His team mate. His commanding officer. Someone he was supposed to support and protect as much as they were meant to him, not to mention the rest of their unit. It was never going to be straightforward, a rat working directly  _with_  a mouse, never mind under one.

Then one day, around eighteen months into their deployment, they were leading a raid on a Plutarkian spy base in the system when all hell broke loose, and most of their team ended up either dead or captured. Frost was one of the few that managed to escape with his life, and despite attempts to convince him to accept the loss and join another unit, he was adamant his fellow soldiers were still alive. Somewhere. Thus he spent the next two years doing everything he could to find them, against any and all opposition. And eventually he did.

He found her. The only remaining captive from their team that was still alive.

Since that day everything was different. Something had formed between them, a connection that broke down the walls of hatred ingrained between their two races, and joined the two of them in a way that few other Martians could barely even comprehend.

For his efforts to find his team Frost finally gained his promotion to commander, and the mouse he rescued to General. She requested that she not be simply sent back to Mars, preferring to be out there on the front line in some way or other, and so was transferred to a base somewhere on the edge of Plutarkian space. A covert base, and one that General Kalis had insisted she choose her own personnel with which to work from it. The first person she had asked for was Frost. Even after she had regained her health she couldn't imagine being separated from her old team partner, the one who had saved her, and neither could he.

After landing here three years ago, the close bond between them had strengthened, and each trusted the other so completely that they felt there was nothing they couldn't share. Until, that is, the day that everything changed again.

Until  _she_  came along.

* * *

It was just after 2am, local time, and from the sounds penetrating through the panelled wall to his ears he knew he wasn't going to be getting much sleep tonight. He had already lain there for several hours, turning himself again and again in restless angst, trying to think – make that not to think – about the events of the last few weeks.

Or the last few months.

Heck, if he really wanted to never sleep again he might as well fret over the whole of the last few goddamn years. His entire life maybe.

Being at war wasn't easy; even as a child, even before he joined the fight, life did not go as smoothly as it should for a youngster. And now, as an adult, with such huge responsibilities weighing him down, it was a miracle if he ever found a way to shut his brain off.

Of course he always did eventually, and he was one of those lucky few that seemed to function perfectly well on bare minimum of shut eye. Unlike his neighbour, who only performed to the level she was stationed at after  _at least_ eight whole hours. Ten was her optimum.

Lately though she must have been getting a lot sleep less than perhaps even he, for she looked drained even in the morning, and add to that the pressure she was under to perform, and the stress and strain she experienced when things didn't go well... she looked like the walking dead some days. And it was getting worse.

Now he knew why.

_Sounds like this one's a bad one._

Frost already knew she had trouble with nightmares, and considering her history it was quite something she hadn't just given in and flipped out from the horrors she frequently re-lived in her mind. Instead though she had thrown herself into her work, which she did very well at for a long while, long enough for the nightmares to lessen and reward her with a more restful slumber, which in turn helped her perform her role as General all the better.

But since those missions Kalis had so carefully planned for her soldiers had started failing, that was when the nightmares had crept back into her unconscious.

With so many things going wrong of late, it was hard to tell what exactly was troubling her this time. It didn't matter what it was though, because she was his mate and nothing would stop him from doing his best to soothe her.

The mouse was tossing around in her bunk quite violently, as if she were literally trying to ward off an attacker. Having crept into her room quite quietly, just in case she calmed before he reached her, and then noting that this dream had to be something really awful, Frost abandoned his stealth and virtually leapt onto her bed in order to rouse her.

Eventually Kalis had calmed down enough to tell him what was troubling her, and then he agreed to spend the night with her in case the nightmares returned. He didn't want her to have to deal with it on her own. Any of it.

What she had just told him was undoubtedly much more disturbing than any normal bad dream. Because it was far too... convincing... for it to just be a dream.

A woman in her head. A human. A species he knew Kalis had never lain eyes on, even with the close proximity of their home planet to Earth. There was no way she was making it up. He knew she wasn't.

Which also meant she had probably done a very sensible thing in deciding to relieve herself of duty, even if he didn't really want to believe it.

_Please let it not be her. I'll do anything to find out who it is, just let it not be her._

Kalis being the mole, however unwilling, or unknowing, was absolutely deadly serious. She knew everything about this base, and up until this point also everything about every operations they had running out of here. If she was right, then everything they had going, everything they had worked towards – all of it was compromised.

But, on the other hand, there may not be too much damage just yet. Their base was at present undiscovered, which suggested an intrusion into her mind somehow was not simply like replaying video footage of her memories.

Frost had already spent some time trying to subversively find out if any of their other base crew could be the reason behind their run of bad luck on the battlefield. Try as he might though, nothing he did could find fault with any of their personnel – not even the ones that were less fond of their commanding officer. Kalis said it herself, many times, that she had screened each one personally before even letting them get within a thousand miles of their current location, and nothing her inner sense had seen gave her any doubt as to their integrity and loyalty.

_She's practically a living lie detector, there's no way she would have missed something._

There were days that Frost thought he had been born to the wrong kind of Martian. Having the gift to see into someone else's mind was undeniably a useful thing when selecting worthy people to work with, especially when operating in such dangerous territory as here.

He shuddered to think of what would happen when the Plutarkians finally found out where they were hiding. And now with Kalis's disturbing revelation as to the nature of her recent bad dreams, the prospect of that terrible day occurring was quickly becoming all the more likely.

However several weeks passed by, and still nothing gave him any indication that the blame for the leak of intel lay anywhere else. He had set up ops, sent ground forces on missions that only a select few knew the details of, and every time they were successful. Well, nearly every time. There were still a few occasions were nothing seemed to go right, but after analysing who had been in the know for those ones in particular, there was no significant nor coherent pattern to suggest anyone involved had leaked intel.

Except for one, glaringly obvious factor: Kalis had remained on sick leave and confined to her quarters the entire time.

It had left Frost in an incredibly difficult position. He had taken over as commanding officer in charge of the base in her absence, which was fine for a while, but when one week became one month and then longer, some of the base crew had begun to grow suspicious.

He wouldn't have gotten to where he was if he didn't have the right credentials for his role, but it still wasn't inherent in his nature to be the kind of dominant force to quell the dissatisfied murmurings of his subordinates. That had always been Kalis, that was why she was General not he.

Somehow though he had to hold it all together, keep the morale of the crew up, the base running smoothly and efficiently, and most importantly keep them safe. All of them. Including Kalis. Preferably before they had a full scale mutiny on their hands.

But she continued to have nightmares. Or perhaps they could call them visions now, because as time progressed they were no longer restricted to nocturnal hours. Now she seemed to be having them even whilst she was wide awake. He lost track of the amount of times he passed by the door to her room only for his ears to prick up at what sounded like a one-sided conversation. It took him quite a bit of courage to even ask her what was going on, and it was even harder for him to not show his deep worry for her when she admitted she had sensed the woman in her thoughts was getting stronger. Apparently she had no recollection of saying anything aloud.

Kalis seemed so afraid that she was losing her mind that it was clear it was up to him to remain calm and focused, and to try to help her to do the same. Giving her things to do, things to distract her from her worries and from the strange visions she appeared to be having, seemed like the most sensible way to keep his girl's feet firmly on the ground.

Meanwhile he had duties to perform elsewhere, and he couldn't possibly spend all his time watching over her. Asking her if she minded him locking her in her dorm had crossed Frost's mind several times of late, for their safety as much as hers, but he hoped it never actually came to locking down his commanding officer, let alone his girlfriend.

It was a risk offering the trade negotiations for Kalis to complete, but after thinking about it for a good few hours the rat decided there was little she could do to harm them from the security of her dorm. The mouse was reluctant to agree with him, which confirmed in his mind she was not a willing participant in being a mole, and made him confident that she would stick to price bargaining and not make any mention of anything that might compromise them.

When he returned with the radio, however, that confidence wavered a little.

_She's fallen asleep again._

As the General was not apparently dreaming this time, he reluctantly decided to leave the radio with her for when she awoke. He would check in on her in an hour, mainly because the cargo vessel didn't have that long to wait around, and hope that this was just a nap and not something else.

The hour came and went, but he didn't have to even knock on her door to know she was alert and doing as he asked.

Frost smiled to himself as he heard the mouse haggling over the price of fresh fruits. It had been months since they had had anything like that in their stores, and he knew that Kalis as much as anyone was not going to pass up the opportunity for something not out of a ration pack.

That evening he returned to her room, bringing with him both of their dinner trays. This was something they did more frequently now, eating together, as prior to her sick leave she had been far too busy to enjoy such simple things as this. Not counting, that is, having their scheduled break times together. Because of their jobs they didn't do many things that a normal couple would have, and the only reason he had been spending so much time in her bed lately was because of the nightmares. His room being next door meant her disturbances kept him awake too.

_Dinner for two. Next time i'll bring candles._

What he would have given to be able to take her out on a proper date. Never mind, he thought, they enjoyed their relationship as it stood, and neither was pressing to take things further than their current lifestyles allowed.

He entered her quarters with the intention of a nice cosy night in with his mate, eating together, laughing together, with discussing the trade being the only work-related topic of conversation, and then finally settling down for the night together. The last part really didn't happen that often.

Then Kalis went and dropped her bombshell before he had even gotten to dessert.

"You did  _WHAT_?" The mouse cringed at his less than calm reaction, but then what else was he supposed to say? This was crazy, and she knew it.

"I had to do something, Frost, and there's nothing in that package that will give us away. You can screen it yourself before they take it."

He relaxed, slightly. He knew she was just trying to do something to relieve some of the guilt she felt over the deaths of her soldiers, and wouldn't dream of just doing it out of recklessness.

"Alright, I will." He sounded a little too abrupt and she had winced, so he followed his affirmation with a small smile before pulling the trembling mouse into a reassuring cuddle. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Would you, if our positions were reversed?"

He squeezed her gently and thought for a moment. What would he do if someone was in his mind, begging for him to help them? Someone who had also made it quite clear they were involuntarily aiding the enemy spy on them.  _At least she's being honest about that. But what if that's just to earn her trust?_

With everything going on, anyone who knew anything about General Kalis could quite easily manipulate the mouse into believing a story like this. They would only have to play on her guilt, her desire to do the right thing, and her remorse for following the rules to the letter - even if that meant losing people under her command. Good people, people she cared about on some level. If they had seen what Kalis had had to do to keep the security of their hiding place a priority, they would have all the ammo they needed to break through the mouse's emotional barriers.

So the answer to her question was that he really didn't know. But then he hadn't experienced this thing like she had. Martian mice were incredibly tuned to the feelings of others who touched their minds, and thus when Kalis said she could feel the human woman's desperation and fear, he knew it must have been hard for her to stop herself from just agreeing to send out a search and rescue right then and there.

Quite unlike the near-emotionless way she had to deal with essentially abandoning any of their own ground crews that came under serious attack.

_The only way she can do her job is to remain detached._

If the Plutarkians found a way to get by her barriers, he thought, then who knows what they could get her to do?

The merchant vessel went on its way two days later, and Frost had done as he said he would and screened the small package Kalis had requested be dropped off at outpost 738. There wasn't much in it, just a small box, inside of which was a folded up piece of parchment. Written on this in native Martian mouse (which he could read since he had spent enough time working with them to pick it up) was a simple message. Nothing at all that would give away their location. Nothing at all for him to worry about. Not really.

The vessel passed by them once or twice a year, depending on the route, and sent an encrypted message to them when it neared their exchange point. It never actually docked at their base – no one did – all trades were done first on radio and then completed at the designated location. Frost had met the captain once or twice, as had Kalis, and again there was no reason to suspect he would be a source of trouble for them.

Except for that one time when they had traded and a whole crate of fresh food had been bad, giving anyone on base who ate it a three-day stomach bug from hell. The captain had been very apologetic on his next visit, between that is laughing hysterically at Frost's annoyed recollection of his own personal sickness. After that he decided the captain was trustworthy through and through. Even if it was an accident, practical jokes tended not to come from people secretly plotting to out you to the enemy.

Which is exactly why this human woman worried him so much. When Kalis had told him that the woman tried to make her kill herself, it had sent alarm bells ringing that simply refused to silence. Not even when she, Charley, had subsequently denied it. In fact that denial made him all the more suspicious, and on top of it she was asking them to help her...

_Good job Kalis seems to still be cautious about this whole thing._

Or was she? Just a few days after admitting to him that she had not only spoken to the woman in her mind, but actually did something to help her that may somehow, inadvertently, put them in danger, she then tells him Charley's been back and not just talking this time. But actually taking control. Even if just for a few seconds.

Now he knew it was time to put a stop to this. Forget how genuine the human sounded, forget that she might be telling the truth and that she is in trouble, forget that she's been honest about being the cause of their troubles. Forget it all.

If Kalis had allowed the human so far in that she actually had control of her body, then this was not just serious, it was downright dangerous. And he told her so.

After promising to spend the night closing her mind off, Frost left her alone and went back to the control room. Kalis had summoned him just before he was about to make a decision on an important operational procedure, and the crew had been somewhat incredulous that he had simply up and left right at that crucial point.

"Commander Frost... everything alright?"

The young Plutarkian was one of the few who retained a genuine concern for the mouse General, and Frost responded with a curt nod. "Everything's fine. Let's do this shall we?"

Squared away in the meeting area beyond the main operational control room time seemed to just slip by. In his absence the crew had had plenty of time to think about the details of this op, and so it had taken several more hours for them to relay what they had come up with, and for him to make his final decision. That done, they were ready to send out a message to the teams waiting to execute this new mission.

Target fifty-seven. Something they had been searching for for several months, and then having found it taken several more months to gather enough intel to know just how to go about dealing with it. It was one of the Plutarkian force's outposts, one that they were sure gathered data on intergalactic traffic to relay to their home world. Kind of like what this base did, only without actually sending anyone out to deal with it personally.

The main thing was though, this outpost had not only alluded them for some time, but had been responsible for many ships – military or civilian – being destroyed or captured en route to wherever they were heading. It had taken them a long time to find out that this place even existed, as for many years it was little more than just a rumour.

Until one day when a diplomatic vessel vanished on its way to a negotiation with a potential new ally, and that new ally just happened to have overheard some radio chatter that was very suggestive in its nature. It was just lucky that they wanted to be in an alliance badly enough to share this intel for free.

Now finally they were in a position to do something about this place, and Frost for one wasn't taking any chances of it going wrong. Everything about this operation had been hush-hush until this meeting, and now only at the last possible moment did everyone on base know everything about it.

Except one person.

Frost had lost track of time so much so he didn't even realise it was morning until the grey-brown furred Martian opened the door to the control room, and everyone within gasped in surprise.

"General Kalis – welcome back sir!"

It was the young Plutarkian again, standing up upon her entry and saluting. Taking their cue from him, the rest of the crew followed in their recognition of their superior officer, though it was clear to Frost a few of them still held mutinous thoughts.

Something Kalis was apparently oblivious to.

"At ease, everyone. Glad to see you all." Kalis was smiling, and her head was held up, her posture tall and confident. Like she used to look before things started to go downhill, only...

Frost signalled to the mouse, and he led her back into the meeting room he had only left a few minutes ago. "Kalis" he began, trying to keep his voice low and without the uneasiness he felt leaking into his tone, "Are you... I mean... did you...?"

Her eyes narrowed, giving him a look that was almost frighteningly just like the old General Kalis from months ago, but not in a good way. "Everything's fine, Frost. I'm fine. You'd better get me up to speed before..."

Frost breathed. Was it too much to hope the mouse had succeeded in completely sealing her mind to intrusion? He didn't want to not trust her, she had said she would and he believed her. She had even said she would return to duty in the morning, and resume her role as if nothing more than a bad bout of ick had kept her away. She really had meant it, it seemed.

"Yes sir." Was all he could think of to say right now, and indicated they return to the control room.

"Sir, we're ready to send out the signal to teams Stellar, Polar and Ellipsis." The alien on comms apparently didn't hold any grudges for her absence either, and was focused entirely on his job.

"Commander Frost - perhaps you had better fill me in sooner rather than later?"

_Considering what's been going on she seems awfully keen. Maybe she's just missed it._

Or maybe she doesn't want to look incompetent in front of her men, he thought. As she had supposedly just spent the last few weeks on sick leave, it was right to assume the crew were expecting her to have been kept up to date.

"Yes, sir, we finalised out plans for target fifty-seven last night." The base crew seemed to relax the moment he had said it, and it encouraged him to continue. "We have three teams approaching the outpost. Stellar is due to enter radio shadow in ten minutes, after that they go dark whilst they attempt to land and infiltrate via the drainage outlets. Polar is going to provide a distraction overhead, drawing any fire away whilst Ellipsis waits on standby to go in hot once Stellar has recovered the data drives."

Kalis listened to the briefing, her face impassive. When Frost had stopped it took her a full ten seconds to apparently even register it, and finally she nodded and turned back to comms.

"You'd better send out that signal, officer."

Comms did his duty, and eight minutes later Stellar team's beacon disappeared from the screen. For the next hour there was nothing more than general chatter and communicaes between the two other approaching teams and the base, keeping each other updated as to their position. Everyone was waiting.

They were waiting for Stellar to give the signal that they were in.

"Can't be much longer now." Frost whispered to Kalis, who half seemed like she was ignoring him by her lack of conversation. He pressed on. "We agreed they would use an energy flux to alert Polar once they were ready to enter the outpost's perimeter."

Kalis nodded. "Polar's going to distract them to give them cover to enter?"

"That's the plan, General."

Frost had expected some sort of acknowledgement. Something to indicate the mouse was pleased with the work he had done, with the plan he was executing. Even the subversive brush of his tail as he stood by her, waiting together for news from the two teams, appeared to illicit no real response from his mate at all.

_Maybe she's done more than closed her mind. Maybe she's buried her emotions as well._

On the one hand the thought brought him relief. Kalis operated much better when she was able to control her emotional reactions to the work she oversaw. On the other hand it saddened him a little because, at least right at this moment, being in 'General mode' seemed to exclude the feelings they shared with each other as well.

Obviously they didn't display their affections publicly, but it was no secret to anyone here they were a couple. They didn't want to make it look like they kept secrets from their crew – not when they wanted them to trust them with their decisions, and more importantly with their lives. But they never made a thing of it when they were working. She was the General, his commanding officer, and they didn't even need to agree that this was how it would be when they were on duty.

But her lack of any form of recognition of their bond, of his close presence to her, made him a little more than uneasy. Perhaps it was just the tension in the room, the feeling everyone was sharing right now, the one that collectively was begging for this mission to be a success, and for everything to go back to some sort of normality.

For him, he wanted this mission to succeed for one reason, and one alone. So that he could be sure that the mouse at his side was who she was meant to be, and no one else. He sincerely hoped that General Kalis had done as she promised, and that this new barrier, this strange new void in emotion from her, was the result of her having closed the breach in her mind once and for all.


	28. Out of control

_Uplink successful._

_Receiving signal loud and clear._

_Awaiting command..._

* * *

Everyone in the control room was waiting. Target fifty-seven was something they had been after for so very long, and now everything hung on this moment. The moment when they found out if their intel was good, or if they had been compromised once again.

A light flashing on the panel alerted the anxious crew that Polar team had just received the signal from Stellar. Minutes went by. Ellipsis radioed through that they had seen Polar drawing fire, and that they were on stand-by to go in when base had received Stellar's signal that they were clear.

Frost's stomach lurched. If something went wrong with this operation then it would mean more than just putting the ground and space forces in danger. A sideways glance at Kalis did not give him any reason to relax. Her face was still completely impassive.

_Perhaps she's forgotten how high value a target number fifty-seven is?_

No, that's not possible, he thought, because it had been her who had organised most of the search teams to track the damn place down. He could only assume this was also part of the mouse's efforts to close off her mind. No emotion. Nothing that would stop her from resuming her incredibly difficult role as officer in charge of this base.

He was so lost in such thoughts he completely missed the second flashing light on the panel, nor did he hear comms relaying the order for Ellipsis to go in, or notice the vast silence that followed as the base crew held their breaths in anticipation.

Everything came rushing through in one huge wave of delight.

_We did it? We really did it?_

Everyone was cheering. Stellar were out, Ellipsis had gone in, Polar had supported. Target fifty-seven was completely destroyed, and the valuable intel that had been collected was already being transferred.

"General! General Kalis! We did it!" Frost was grinning, and several of the crew were thumping him on the back. He was practically buried under congratulations, so much so he struggled to reach the comms desk and transmit his own 'well done' message to the three teams.

When Frost stood up again, he realised there was something missing. Or someone.

_Kalis?_

She wasn't in the control room, nor the adjoining meeting room.

_Where is she? She wouldn't normally step out when we've had a victory like this._

Pulling himself from the arms of his fellow officers, Frost managed to get out of the room to go and find the missing mouse.

"Kalis? What are you d-?"

He found her, in the weapon stores, staring blankly at the ammunition crate.

"Kalis? Are you alright?"

She didn't answer, not right away, but slowly turned to face him.

Her face bore a strange, detached expression, and it send a pang of worry through him. It was then that Frost noticed the radio in her hand.

"Kalis? What are you doing in here? Why do you have a radio?"

A few months back he wouldn't have even felt the need to ask it. Security was the top priority on base - only a few personnel were allowed portable radios, and even these were rigorously logged in and out. There was an intercom system, but it was limited to a few key areas – and other than that the base was small enough to just relay internal messages in person.

After everything that had happened of late, Frost couldn't rid himself of the slight misgivings he had upon seeing the General radio in hand. Yet before he could even think the million anxious thoughts that might have crossed his mind, she suddenly smiled. "It's alright Frost, I was just looking for that celebration pack we made up; remember? The one for when we finally cracked fifty-seven."

"Oh... right!" Frost did remember, and he was relieved that she apparently did too. "Great – the crew will be thrilled. Been so long since we've had anything meaningful to throw a party for."

"Right, like Sol's birthday wasn't anything..?"

Frost smirked in amusement. Sol monitored external communications and radio traffic, and whilst keeping a sombre demeanour during his shift he turned out to have something of a wild side when it came to having fun.

"Not compared to this, Kalis." Frost said as he pulled aside the ammo store to reveal the hidden party pack. "We're going to need some help getting this set up..."

"Already on it." Kalis grinned waggling the radio in front of his nose. The anxiety he felt evaporated, and soon the party-going Sol and the young Plutarkian officer had joined them in the store room to carry out the contents of the crate.

* * *

It was early when he woke. The clock said two-fifteen am, and the noise filtering from next door was all too familiar.

_She's having a nightmare? Now? What is it with her and this hour?_

Frost groaned inwardly as he hauled himself out of his bunk. Kalis had taken herself to bed at her normal time, and he had let her go knowing that she probably still had a lot of sleep to catch up on. He had finally crawled into his own bunk a little after midnight, exhausted from all the high spirits and jubilations of the party, including some really, really strong tasting beverages. He wasn't drunk though, they didn't have any alcohol on base because it was far too dangerous (for reasons ranging from fire hazard to allergic reaction), but what they did have still provided most of the species here with a semi-natural high.

That high had long since passed, and his body currently felt like it hadn't slept for a month. The come down from both the drink and the strain he had been under were simultaneously taking their toll, begging him to sleep it off. Being woken up after barely two hours was not what he needed right now.

But the mouse next door was not something he could ignore. She was practically screaming.

Frost threw himself out of bed and into the next room, taking the crying mouse into his arms.

"Shh, it's ok, it's just a dream.  It's nothing; you're safe, i'm here now."

He said it over and over, his voice calm and low, trying his best to soothe the distraught Martian in his arms whilst at the same time desperately trying to retard the frantic acceleration of his own pulse. Her having a nightmare even after such a good day was prodding at that earlier feeling of unease and sending it practically into overdrive.

Somehow though he managed to keep a level head and not totally flip out himself. He needed to believe that this was nothing to worry about, that it was just the result of over-exertion on the mouse's first day back on the job.

_Probably just the normal kind of bad dream she has._

He also needed to be back in his bunk and himself sleeping soundly for a change.

Eventually, without her even saying a word she relaxed and fell back asleep, so he lay her down again and turned to leave, desperate for the restorative powers of a good night's rest. He had just reached her door when he heard her.

It was the quietest of whispers that escaped that mouse's lips, and even in the vacuum that had followed her cries of distress his ears were not able to make out what she was saying.

"Kalis? Are you awake?" Frost ventured back to his mate's bunk, expecting her eyes to be open. From what he could see though she was sound asleep, and her unmoving lips provided nothing more.

He shook his head, assuming his sleep-heavy brain was playing tricks on him, and tiptoed from the room and back to the comforting warmth of his own bunk, and finally sunk back into a deep slumber.

The next morning most of the crew were back on duty, and everyone was nursing some form of ache in their bodies. The liquor effected each species slightly differently, depending on their metabolism. For most it usually included a headache, though rats usually also had tremors in their hands, whilst mice often lost the use of their tails. Plutarkians found themselves desperate for a bath (no doubt to flush the metabolic toxins out of their gills), and the ones on base kept their own personal supply of pure water for this purpose alone. Sol's species, another mammalian-looking alien complete with fur, tail, etc, apparently had increased libido the morning after. He often joked that most couples tended to hook up  _after_ a party, and not during.

Frost clenched his twitching fingers together to try and steady them, and stepped into the control room otherwise feeling pretty good. In fact very good, particularly when he noticed the alien on comms had turned bright yellow.

"So that's why you didn't want a drink last night?" He said, trying his best not to laugh too loudly, and instead managing something like a cross between a donkey's haw and a snigger.

"Yeah well, better get used to it sir, i've heard it can take a month for the normal colour to return."

The alien on comms rolled his eyes, apparently having heard all the normal jests about his species reaction to the party drink, and Frost nodded jovially. "I guess we will have to. Anyone else likely to be too embarrassed to show today?"

A quick glance around told him there were at least three missing faces from the morning shift.

"The fish have all got bowls on their heads or something, said they will be here in an hour. Other than that, just the General, sir."

Frowning, Frost turned on his heel to go and check up on Kalis, wondering if her broken sleep had had a more significant effect on her routines than normal, but didn't even get through the door before her face appeared.

"Feeling alright, General?" He murmured as she entered, not wanting anyone else in the room to hear his concern.

Kalis barely even looked at him as she passed, and thinking she might not have heard him he followed her and repeated his query. She jerked her chin down slightly in acknowledgment.

"I'm fine Frost. Just overslept." She paused for a second, perhaps noting his look of worry. " _Damn party wine_."

Frost nodded, mostly satisfied that she amongst the rest of them was simply experiencing the side effects of the celebrations, although a tiny part of him couldn't help feeling there was something more. Something just a little off.

His assumptions leapt back to the notion that perhaps the General had closed herself off a little too effectively.

_But then why the nightmares? They should have subsided if she's blocking out emotion as well?_

However, after the success of yesterday no one else on the crew seemed to show any of their former reservations about the mouse General's health or fitness to lead. They all assumed that Kalis had been kept up to speed with everything the entire time she was on sick leave, and now they were all happy to accept that any previous problems were down to her simply being unwell. Especially as the day before's success had occurred just when she had returned to active duty.

They had no idea Kalis knew nothing of the planned strike on fifty-seven until the moment she walked in the control room door. And Frost was happy to keep it that way.

The puzzled rat decided he would talk to Kalis during their break about her state of mind, and of her having another nightmare last night. Today though there was plenty to do now that they had all that Plutarkian data to decode, and debriefings to supervise for the tactical teams (which was done on secure channels, not in person for obvious reasons), and Frost was so busy coordinating everything he didn't even have time to think of last night, nor the coolness his mate was continuing to show him.

At break time he looked up from his screen, searching for the face of the one he would normally be heading down to the mess hall with. She wasn't there.

_That's strange... she normally waits._

Thinking she might have forgotten somehow that they nearly always took this time together, Frost shrugged and headed over to get his lunch by himself, and assumed that the General would be there, probably with both of their food trays already on the table.

She wasn't. He ate alone, taking it slow in case she showed up, but the time came for him to return to his station and she still hadn't appeared.

Back at the control room he saw her talking with Sol, and his heart fluttered a little. It really did seem like the General had blocked him out of her mind as well.

For the rest of the shift she barely even looked at him, but when it was time to leave he finally managed to catch her eye, and they left together almost as if nothing had really changed. He spent dinner time with her, and they chatted – although the conversation was more like two strangers making small talk than two lovers appreciating having some private time with each other.

That night he lay in his bunk unable to relax. It really bothered him, this change in Kalis. He knew that Martians had varying abilities in controlling the access to their minds, and from what he had seen Kalis had always been one of those with a very competent skill in doing so. That someone had ever even managed to enter her mind completely threw that skill into question, until that is she seemed to have regained a level of control that blocked out just about everything, including what made her the kind of mouse he adored.

_I hope this isn't permanent, for both our sakes._

He felt miserable. It had been him who had persuaded her to do it in the first place, and now he was almost on the point of regretting it. Almost. The security of their base always had to come before their relationship.

Finally he drifted off, but once again his night was interrupted.

"Two a.m. Dammit Kalis you're becoming so predictable." Frost muttered under his breath as he pulled back his sheets.

There was no screaming tonight, in fact the sound that had awoken him was not even her voice. It must have been her door closing, because she wasn't even in her room.

Sleep walking wasn't a regular feature of her nocturnal activities, but it had happened once or twice before, though not for a long time. After checking the kitchen (her last wandering had been to the fridge, the classic destination of dieters – not that she had ever been on one) and finding it empty, he did a methodical search of any rooms that she might be in. Eventually he found an open door, and a mouse staring into space. In the records and data depository area, the archives.

_Thank goodness she didn't pick the ammo store._

Kalis said nothing as he guided her back to her bunk, and once he was sure she was tucked in well enough to not go wandering around again he crawled back into his own, groaning at having been disturbed again.

The next day was like the last. Frost didn't even bother asking her about the sleepwalking, knowing she probably wouldn't even remember, and in fact he had himself completely forgotten to ask her about the nightmare of the night before. He was too wrapped up in work today to let her distant behaviour worry him, and when he realised he would be spending lunch alone again he merely shrugged it off, and used the extra time to get back to his station.

This went on for a further three days. During shift they barely saw each other beyond the control room itself. In the evening they had dinner together, in the mess hall not her quarters, and the conversation was still very superficial. By night he slept alone, though thankfully there were no more interruptions to his rest.

On the fourth day, when the bulk of the debriefings had been worked through, Frost decided he would make sure he got to spend his break with the General.

He got up to go to the mess hall, but was called back by Sol.

"Commander Frost, the General asked me to tell you to meet her in her dorm for lunch."

Sol was smirking, which meant he thought their break today would not be spent just eating.

"Thanks Sol. And wipe that grin off your face." Frost didn't mind a bit of banter with the crew here and there, and he certainly didn't want to let on to anyone that his relationship with the General had been less than close lately.

At the door to Kalis's quarters he found a note tacked to the door. It said she would be back in five minutes and to wait inside. Frost thought she must be getting their food trays, so he went in and sat on the little stool by her dresser.

From the corner of his eye he noticed something sticking out from under her bunk, and in his curiosity he went to take a closer look.

_What's she doing with transmission logs?_

It wasn't the General's normal choice of bedtime reading, though she had been known to go over mission records – especially ones that had gone wrong. One of the folders in the pile was certainly one of those. It was dated a few months back, when Delta team had been ordered to make certain the ground unit who were under fire did not get captured.

Right around the time when Kalis started dreaming about the woman. In fact all the logs in this pile were of missions that had failed due to the suspected leak of intel.

_Probably just making sure she didn't miss anything._

To pass the time he read through some of the papers, and when he looked up again he realised that over twenty minutes had passed already. Swearing under his breath he dumped the logs and set off for the mess hall, unimpressed that Kalis seemed to have forgotten him once again.

She wasn't there, and he ate his lunch in a miffed silence before heading back to his desk. Kalis was talking to the alien on comms, and didn't even look up when he entered.

Frost felt hollow. Was this how things were going to be from now on? Had he sacrificed their relationship by asking her to block her mind? Or was she angry at him for it? Did she miss the other woman in her head?

_Did she even close her mind at all?_

No, no he didn't want to descend so far as to not trusting that she had. The mouse had actually looked excited at the prospect of resuming her duties, and there was no way she would be reckless enough to lie to him about doing as he asked.

At some point in the afternoon Kalis left the control room, and the rat took the opportunity to go over and speak to Sol. The General had spent a lot of time at his station the last few days, and what with having transmission logs in her bedroom, it made sense that Sol would know why.

"She got them from archives, said she wanted to make sure there were no other mission failures or something."

"Is that all? Was she asking you where they were?"

Sol paused, unsure of why Frost was asking him and not his girlfriend these questions.

"Um. She did mention something about long-range transmissions, sir."

Alarm bells. This was not what he wanted to be hearing right now. He took a deep breath before daring to ask. "Sending or receiving?"

"Sending? I thought that was only allowed in an emergency."

"That's right. Well?"

"Neither really, I think she was just checking to see if I was keeping on top of my duties."

Frost relaxed. Kalis really was back in General mode. Big time.

"Thanks Sol. Any idea where she is now?"

* * *

Frost didn't know why he was running. Something inside him was burning, a curiosity coupled with anxiety, and it was driving him down that corridor towards archives much faster than he initially intended.

After finding out that the General was spending in fact most of her break times down there, he had took it upon himself to try and find out what her sudden fascination with the room was. But every time he went looking she had either already left or was just leaving, usually with more log files in her arms. Her explanation was always the same – just catching up.

But catching up on logs from before her absence? It made no sense.

_Damn I've missed her again._

Archives was empty, at least of people, but he did notice a pile of paper files sitting on the small table in the room. Assuming that Kalis had left them here, he decided to have a quick look to see what it was she had wanted to read this time.

There was something familiar about these logs, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It wasn't that they were all mission failures – because this time they weren't – but it was a nagging feeling in the back of his subconscious that there was something he could see but not fully comprehend.

In frustration he dropped the files and stalked back to the control room. Before he had even sat down at his desk he was being called over to the monitoring station. Sol was trying hard to be discreet but Frost knew he wanted to tell him something.

"Everything alright Sol?"

The alien looked hesitant, and gestured for Frost to move in closer – pointing at something on his screen. The rat bent down to look, but the screen was blank, and Sol was breathing in his ear.

"I thought you should know sir, the General was asking about long-range transmissions again."

His heart skipped. "Sending?"

"No, sir, still not that. She wanted to know if anything had shown up in the last few days. Since fifty-seven."

Standing up straight again, Frost frowned. What exactly Kalis was expecting to show up on their radar he had no idea.

_Maybe she's expecting a reply from 738?_

That was ridiculous, he thought, because it would take weeks for the merchants to reach that outpost.

"Is... is everything alright sir? With the General?"

Frost tried his hardest not to grimace . "Don't worry about it. And thanks, Sol. Let me know if anything does show up, won't you?"

The alien nodded and Frost went back to his desk thoroughly confused. He really wished he could just pin the mouse down in private for long enough to ask her what was going on.

That night he could hear her again. Dreaming. Crying. A small part of him didn't want to go to her, the part that felt slighted by her lack of interest in him, but in truth he cared too much to just brush away four years of bonding over a little insecurity.

The mouse was sobbing, and he put her arms around her to soothe her. She didn't wake, but did eventually settle down again. Frost decided that maybe it would be a good idea to just stay with her this time. Just in case.

An hour later he woke again. Alone.

Cursing, Frost got up to go and look for her. She wasn't in archives, nor the kitchen. The ammo store was locked, so she definitely wouldn't be in there.

The only place the mouse would be able to access at this time of night was...

_Oh no._

She was sitting there, not making a sound, not moving, not doing anything. Or at least she wasn't now. Frost approached the monitoring station, slowly, try not to make any sudden movements – he didn't want to scare her into waking.

Her finger was on the panel, on the 'transmit' button.

"Kalis? Kalis what are you doing?" He hissed, knowing damn well that only the General could send out a long-range message without any co-authorisation. "Kalis what the hell are you doing?"

She didn't respond, apparently fast asleep, so Frost bent forwards and tapped on the panel to bring up today's logs.

_Thank goodness._

She hadn't sent any messages. In fact she hadn't even put her code in. She was just sat there with her finger on the button – perhaps not even intentionally. If a sleepwalker could even have intentions.

He took her back to her room, lay her down, and curled himself around her. He was determined she would not slip out again without him noticing.

Nothing else happened that night, and the next morning he had been awoken with a kiss to his nose and a playful nip on his cheek. And then she was gone. By the time he got to the control room she was already at her desk, eyes deep in paperwork. Doing her job.

Frost pushed away any thoughts of the night before and got on with his own tasks, and didn't look up again until break time. Just in time to see Kalis leaving. Now was his chance.

"Kalis wait for me!"

He jogged along the corridor, following the tip of her long tail but never quite closing the gap. She must have been running too. Sprinting, even.

"Kalis! Wait!"

She wasn't slowing, and he was having a hard time keeping up. He couldn't understand why she wouldn't wait for him.

He soon lost sight of her completely, but he had an fair idea where she was going.

The rat reached the heavy door to archives and pulled it open, expecting the General to be on a mission to find something important with the haste she had shown to get to here.

With his heavy panting he hadn't heard her voice, and when he opened that door to find her not rifling through boxes of papers but sitting on a box and talking into a radio, it took him totally by surprise.

"Kalis!"

The mouse glared at him, and his jaw dropped open as her face twisted into an expression he hadn't ever seen her do before. Fierce contempt. It was also at this point he noticed a scrap of paper in her other hand.

"What are you doing?" He sputtered, realising she had been reading whatever was on that paper to whoever was on the other end of the radio. "Who are you talking to?"

Panic was rising inside him now, but a second later Kalis's face had relaxed into a smile. "Thanks Sol, he's here now" she said into the radio, before letting it drop to the floor and standing up to meet him.

"Wh-?"

The question was lost in her lips. The kiss the mouse gave him was so intense it completely took his breath away, and before he realised it she was tugging at his uniform and at her own, frantically trying to rid them of their garments. She reached out and pulled the door shut behind him, propelling him to the floor whilst still kissing him, and fumbling one-handed with his shirt.

Frost was now more confused than ever. The mouse had been so cold to him lately he had never expected her to swing right the other way, to inferno. It took him just about everything he had to stop himself from allowing this to go further than it should.

"Not that I don't want to Kalis..." he gasped lightly into the mouse's furred lobe which had tucked itself under his chin "...but you know we can't, not here, not now."

They had both agreed to keep some distance between them as far as sexual activities went, but not just because of work. It was more to do with their species' anatomical differences, and that they would need some... specialist help if they wanted to go down that road. If he didn't want to hurt her.

Kalis stilled in his arms, and Frost nuzzled the female beside him tenderly, licking her face and nibbling the fur on her cheeks. She hadn't said another word since dropping the radio, and if anything it looked like she was falling asleep.

She had.

"Kalis?"

The panic returned. Frost lay the sleeping mouse down and hastily pulled his uniform back together, and then did the same with hers. She didn't even stir.

_This is not good. This is so not good._

Frost carried the unconscious General to her bunk before running at full speed to the control room. There was something he had to know.

He spied the furred alien sitting at his listening station, and strode over and pulled him roughly to his feet.

"Sir? Is everything ok?" Sol squeaked in surprise, clearly assuming he was in trouble for something, though he couldn't fathom what.

"What did Kalis say to you? Why did she want me to go to archives?" Frost was growling and it made the poor male quake in fear.

"S-sir? W-what are you talking about?"

"She just spoke to you on the radio. Told you I was there with her, right?"

Sol was shaking his head wildly. He had never seen Frost so upset before. "N-no sir, she didn't! The last time I spoke to her was umm.. an hour ago, she wanted to see today's logs."

"And was there anything to see?"

The alien shook his head.

A thought struck him, and Frost dropped his voice, letting go of Sol as he spoke. "Can you bring up the base security footage on here?"

Sol nodded. "When do you want to see?"

"Last night, from two am. In fact every night for the last week, from the same time. Corridor C."

If Sol realised that he was being asked to show the passage that the General's quarters were in he didn't say, but there on screen for both to see was a night-vision view of the mouse wandering around in her sleepwear.

"What's going on sir? Is she ok?"

Frost nodded. "Sleep walking."

The alien relaxed. Clearly Frost was just concerned about his girlfriend, little else would normally get him so riled.

"That explains why she looks so tired then." Sol smiled. "Always looking out for her, aren't you Frost? She's a lucky mouse."

The alien's lack of real concern did nothing to abate the worry he felt himself. Frost wondered how many times the sleeping General had wandered to the monitoring station, but he felt sure that even if she had, anything she might have done would show up on the logs – and that Sol would be the first to know. Even if Kalis inputted her secure code to use the transmitter that would be recorded too, and there was no way to erase it without leaving a trail. A security feature Kalis herself had insisted on.

_But why did she pretend to be talking to Sol?_

Unless this was all some sort of elaborate practical joke (which wasn't beneath Sol, really) then there had to be something more to this. Like she was trying to cover something up. Caught in the act.

_Like in the ammo room, when we cracked fifty-seven._

When she had a radio clutched in her hand.

A radio that was quite capable of transmitting to outside the base.

_Shit._

It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't actually got a look at what was written on that piece of paper.

"Thanks Sol. Remember, if anything shows up..."

He didn't have to finish his sentence, and he hurried from the room with the mystified glances of several pairs of eyes on his back.

Barely controlling the intense alarm coursing through him now, Frost sprinted back to the archive store. After a few minutes he found the slip of paper, but to his further bewilderment it was completely blank.

_What the h-?_

The jumbled pile of logs from the previous day was where he had left them, and upon seeing them he felt compelled to take another look. There had to be something within that could tell him what was going on. But there was nothing, just one page with its corner torn off. He looked at the scrap of blank paper he was still clutching onto, and out of curiosity lined it up to the page he was open at. It matched the tear perfectly.

Frost stared at the page for several minutes trying to see what, if anything, had drawn Kalis to this page.

The only thing he could make any vague connection to was one entry. It was to one of the teams that had perished on the ground. At her command, protocol seventy-seven. It was the same log file he had found in her room that lunch time, with the mission she had ordered around about the time that her strange dreams had begun.

_But why this?_

With the logs in hand he made his way to the General's quarters, hoping that he could wake her up and ask her. He wanted to know why she was reading the logs, and to ask if she had any idea why she was in the control room last night. Why she kept asking about long-range transmissions. Why she kept taking a radio without logging it.

He hoped there was an innocent explanation or that it was just some sort of prank.

He hoped he could actually wake her, and that she wasn't still out cold.

He hoped above all else this wasn't something to do with Charley, the human woman infiltrating her brain. The spy. The intrusion Kalis was meant to have blocked out.

_Oh god, don't let this be because of her._

Try as he may he had not been able to keep the suspicion from his mind. Try as he may he had not been able to prevent himself coming to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, the human had finally gained full control of his mate's body, pretending to be her so that she could somehow use their base to get help. Assuming the woman really did need help.

It would explain the emotional detachment, and the dreams. Maybe even the sleep walking. It could be why Kalis was blowing hot and cold on him, he thought, because even if the human had known they were mates, there was no way she could have seen enough about their relationship to know exactly how to behave around him. Or could she? What had happened in archives though was definitely not something his mate would do. The human was probably over-compensating.

He had to confront Kalis now before this other woman went and did something to jeopardise the base.

Frost threw open the door to the General's dorm with determined force, but stopped short of just running in and getting angry at her for lying to him.

Kalis was sitting up, her eyes glazed and teary, muttering softly albeit incoherently to herself.

Like she was sleepwalking again. Like she had completely lost control.

The rat softened. No, he couldn't do angry. Not yet. Not if this wasn't her fault. Frost put his arms around the mouse and drew her into him, and sat there trying to make sense of all of this. Of what to do when she came around. Of what to say to her without making things worse between them. Of what she was saying.

_What is she saying?_

"Kalis... I don't understand what you're trying to tell me..." Frost whispered, rocking her body gently against him, wishing he could get through this odd behaviour and speak to the real Kalis, the mouse he knew and loved.

He could feel her heart hammering in her chest, the heat flushing across her furred skin, and the slight trembling of her muscles. Frost looked down, swallowing hard, not enjoying the sight nor the feel of his mate coming apart before him.

It was then he noticed it. Another piece of paper, a torn edge of a page no doubt, clutched tightly in her hands.

Kalis peered up at him, her eyes no longer expressionless but filled with... something. Like she really wanted to tell him something but couldn't. Instead she lifted her hand and pressed the paper into his, and he took it wondering what was so important about it.

Frost expected it to be blank, but it wasn't.

He looked at the hand-written words for a few seconds, and suddenly everything made sense. All those logs she had been reading did have one thing in common, though perhaps not in the exact same words. Page numbers. Document references. Mission codes. They all spelled one thing.

_Protocol seventy-seven._

And then it hit him.

The sound of someone running down the hall and in through bunk room door made him startle. It was the yellow-furred alien from comms.

"Frost! I'm so glad I found you...both..." he gasped between the stitch in his side "...you have to come... now... control room... Sol says... urgent..."

The rat looked at the paper in his hands, and the mouse leaning into him, and then at the panting alien in the doorway.

"Commander? What is it? Is she ok?" The alien noted the way the mouse was staring, and the way that Frost was holding her, and knew that there was something very, very wrong.

"Commander... you have to come now... it's urgent... Sol says..."

"I know." Frost whispered, lowing his chin and giving the mouse in his arms a sad smile.

" _They're coming_."


	29. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to review, oh quiet but ever present audience.

Far beneath the surface on the outskirts of the city, farther still from the prying eyes of law and morality, a place existed so removed from light and the expanse of freedom that any person who found themselves there was almost truly lost. Those lucky few able to emerge from the temperate hell long enough to reconnect with something more tangible than dread and despair were quite content with their lot. Those not given such an option had two choices: Embrace the darkness and accept whatever fate offered, or try to fight against it.

Neither was a particularly welcome alternative.

In the years that had succeeded the Pit Boss's expulsion from academic institution, his transformation from tutor to thug to torturer had been accompanied by a growing mass of followers, and as each new member joined his club of fugitive felons the urge to exert his control and dominance of weaker people increased. He dropped his old name in favour of something to reflect his expanding authority, but having people willingly do his bidding was not enough to satisfy the burgeoning lust for complete control.

And thus The Pits were born, partly through the chance offering at having somewhere to focus his empire, and partly through the natural progression of having subordinates, and needing a base from which to top the chain of command. That and it was getting more and more difficult to keep his precious, hard-won and growing number of prisoners from those that might seek to find and free them.

The Pits provided the perfect place for him to have control. An empire in which to be emperor. A prison in which to be warden. A place for a master to keep his property. His slaves.

In the wake of losing his most prized possessions of all, the two biker mice, the Pit Boss had felt a real blow to his standing as lord of this domain, and sought to quickly re-assert his power over all remaining. Further conflicts arose once the news spread that people were being kept as slaves there, eventually losing him his sanctuary from the moral world to the indomitable force that was Four-by. The man-friend of the biker mice was determined such an atrocity as the slave mine should not ever exist again, and the Pit Boss was reluctantly forced to accept defeat.

Fortune smiled upon him once again though. Keeping tabs on the original creator of the Pits, the Plutarkian presence in the city - who had a relentless desire for natural resources and an endless supply of giant digging machines - had undoubtedly been a wise move. Limburger had unwittingly alerted the tunnel-dwelling man to what was to become his grandest upgrade in real-estate yet.

Now, at last, he had a real place to call both his home and his kingdom. Unconnected to the former Pits, there was no chance of the monster truck-driving human-rights crusader reaching him, and better still with the security measures put in place by the hopelessly useless Limburger - in his attempts to prevent his latest wild schemes being discovered by the mice - there was next to no chance that any law enforcement, be it civilian or military, would ever, ever find the place either.

Finally, after years of moulding this new residence to his liking, everything was falling into place. Everything was as he wanted it. He had followers, a strictly controlled hierarchy amongst them, and right at the bottom of that he had his slaves. An endless supply of captives to do his bidding as and when he wished, people to subjugate to his whims, beings to possess as his own. With them at his behest his kingdom had grown and polished itself to its current glory, and even his dream of having a castle was nearing fruition. The last section was on the verge of being completed.

The Pit Boss was pleased. Very pleased. And when he was pleased he was happy, and when he was happy his men were happy. Everything was good.

They had all they needed, almost, and anything they didn't have they had tried and tested means of getting it. Food, clothing, fuel: Easy. Weapons, materials: Easy. Female company for his men – no problem. New slaves... not an issue.

Not an issue at all when they practically came calling on your doorstep. Getting the three mice had made the Pit Boss all the more delighted at having this new base of operations. Apparently allowing Limburger to continue with whatever diabolical scheme he was up to unhindered had paid off. It was inevitable that the mice would track him down and put a stop to it someday, all he had to do was watch and wait.

Now he had them. The two former slaves had been frighteningly straightforward to overcome, and not difficult at all to reintegrate. The third one had been equally and satisfyingly unwilling to just roll over for him, and he had thoroughly enjoyed taking his time watching the mouse slowly, but surely, come apart before his eyes.

All he had had to do was allow him to see what it meant to be a slave, without actually subjecting him to the worst of it firsthand. Seeing his two closest friends quietly fall had been much more effective than trying to force him to submit. Sure, the white mouse had done as he was told – mostly – but it was only a matter of time before he could hold his wayward tongue no longer. Their honour and their bond as brothers had eventually been his undoing; his need to uphold their private oaths of comradery and protect his friends as if they were his own flesh and blood had, eventually, cost him everything.

The Pit Boss had broken the white mouse, the third of the set of three he had promised himself he would get control of once again. He had succeeded, and more than that he had done something he never thought possible. Indeed, no one would have. In having the final slave succumb to full and unquestioning obedience, he had inadvertently severed the special link of trust between the three alien prisoners. Forged between them as youngsters, strengthened and cemented as comrades in arms, solidified to what had been an indestructible connection; the breaking of one of them had shattered this trust, and ultimately broken the close brotherly bond between them.

Now that each mouse was a separate entity he could reach them in ways he had not been able to before. He didn't doubt they still cared about each other, on some level, but the dynamics between them had definitely changed. Even he could sense it. And as soon as the time was right he would thoroughly enjoy watching as the last traces of what they once were, what they once meant to each other, finally dissolved and vanished forever into oblivion.

Then they would truly be his, and then they would be truly lost.


	30. What happens now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hang on to your seats folks, this is one of those cliffhangers that will make your fingers fall off. Lol.

Even in the gloom of the cavern the giant building was an awesome sight. It seemed almost absurd that such a structure was needed when the gnawed rock of the surrounding tunnel provided quite adequate shelter, but now nearing completion the underground castle held a sumptuous quality all its own, negating every terrible thing that had become associated with it since its inception. Despite being embodied by the same stone material as the Pits itself, the castle somehow stood out from its background. Perhaps it was more than the stone that gave it its intense, power-laden aura. Many might be forgiven for suggesting that the tainted rock, seeped in the blood and sweat of over a hundred slaves, was in fact responsible for the terrifying luminance it possessed.

Whatever it was, the home of the Pit Boss was mere days away from finality, and the incredible edifice that was the cornerstone of their existence had a marked effect on the lives of the slaves who were building it.

Their master seemed at ease somehow. With the pressure to finish his house-come-office waning, the self-styled ruler was much more relaxed around his men, and thus in turn his men were less hassled and more easy-going, and less likely to take out their own frustrations on the other prisoners.

Overall, the majority of the captive population enjoyed the respite in their brutal regime. Their working days did not seem so long, though no one would say they were in fact shorter – there was no way the Pit Boss would want to delay the project any longer – and slaves returned to their cells feeling noticeably less exhausted than normal. Most would find their down time more restorative, and consequently were more able to work the following day.

This cycle of positivity improved the atmosphere of this deepest, darkest of slave prisons to beyond all expectations, and many throughout the ranks held high hopes that somehow this would culminate in something ultimately even better. Freedom.

When they first moved to this new Pits the workload had been sky high; firstly there was the widening, lengthening and expanding the existing tunnel system, then the creation of the slave prison, eventually moving on to the building of the castle. Many slaves believed that once the castle was complete their job would be finished, and that there would be no need for them anymore. Many believed this would signal the end of their slavery, and the start of a new life.

A few were much more sceptical. More realistic perhaps. A few who knew the Pit Boss better than just as a tyrant holding a whip whilst watching them work, had a fair idea that the castle's completion was not the end of their enslavement.

One such slave perhaps knew this more than anyone. For him his captivity had not all been about how much stone he could break with a pick nor carry in his cart. For him it had been just as much about serving his master as a slave as it was about working under him.

For a long time Throttle had wondered about the other prisoners, about how they viewed their dimly-lit existence and where they thought their lives would end up. At night he would sometimes catch their whispers, as he had done the first time he had been enslaved, and listened as tit-bits of gossip and rumour, despair and hope travelled between the cells and their inhabitants. Even with his sensitive ears he struggled to hear them clearly, for they were not stupid enough to ever raise their voices beyond the earshot of their nearest neighbours, but once in a while he would sense something in their words, something to give him an impression of what it meant for them to be a slave.

He gathered that for the majority it was just a case of working until they dropped, and the fear of what happened when they couldn't work. Many shared stories of what they had seen or experienced first-hand when slaves finally fell from exhaustion. Some of the things Throttle overheard chilled him deeply. He also soon began to realise the near-celebrity status he and his two bros had, simply from not being human.

Some of the slaves clearly did not like this one bit. A deep suspicion ran through a few of the longer term inhabitants; partly because they had never seen a non-human sentient before, which scared them, and partly because even they could see the difference between their respective treatments.

Arguably the three mice probably suffered much worse than anyone, but being stronger and more capable of absorbing some of the physical harshness, it appeared to the weaker-bodied humans that there was an unfair imbalance in what was happening to them. Throttle didn't expect the human slaves to understand just how humiliating it was to be labelled as animals just because they had fur, tails and such like, nor for them to know that their cultural differences and their histories made this whole experience so horrifying it was painful just to think about it.

Yet Throttle was also not so naive to assume it was only him and his two bros that were singled out for special treatment by their master either. Maybe it was obvious to the other slaves what was happening to them (at least superficially), because it was impossible for them to just blend in to the crowd, but it was less apparent to the mice just what exactly happened to the rest of the inmates of this brutal prison.

As the last few days of castle construction ticked by many of the human slaves enjoyed a relative freedom from their pains. For a few, however, the next chapter of their cruel existence was making itself very well known to them. And for the first time, for some, they were finally getting a glimpse of how the 'other half' lived.

* * *

It had been several days since Throttle had last detected that familiar, ever-present scent invading his nostrils. The walk between the mine and the prison, well-trodden and stained with its own unique collection of smells and textures, had become almost an unbearable trip of late due to the addition of one more, inescapable, sensory marker.

The first time he had noticed it, he had looked up from the half-stupor of routine he normally shuffled in, surprised at seeing what it was that had changed. After the initial shock came too many emotions for him to deal with, and he had spent that day in the mine trying to comprehend what he had witnessed that morning.

His youngest bro, punished about as harshly as he could have been without actually being killed. Put on display for everyone to get a good look at him. Denied just about everything that had scarcely kept him going as it was. He couldn't move, speak, eat, drink, smell, touch. It was verging on sensory deprivation – something a Martian mouse would struggle with much more pointedly than a human. From a single glance Throttle knew that if his bro ever made it out his new cage alive, he would be forever changed. And not for the better.

The mouse could sense it already, from even before he had seen the culmination of their master's judgement. Before Vinnie had snapped both he and their other bro had felt a connection to each other and to him, and Modo in particular had confided that there was a link between himself and the white mouse that he had not expected to be there, but had felt it grow since their enslavement. The gentle grey mouse had feared their younger bro was suffering from this link, seeing things that would add to the great strain he was already under, pressuring him to take that step to try and protect or free his friends from harm.

Of course by the time they had realised it was already happening it was too late. And from the moment they had seen their bro be led out from the castle and humiliated in front of the entire population of the Pits, they felt their precious bond between them weakening, until finally, perhaps a week or so after seeing their bro's horrific new living quarters, Modo whispered in his ear that he could no longer feel their friend inside his mind.

Throttle despaired. Deep down he felt it too, that void, yet deeper still there were other feelings of his own that told him one and only one thing. They had lost their bro, ultimately because of them. Because of him.

Reflecting back to that day, one of the few that did manage to stick in his mind, Throttle could see how his own fear had yet again been responsible for triggering something: a catastrophic reaction to his own ineptitude at bravery under intense psychological pressure. Just like out in the tunnels, when he had been so paralysed at the sight of his old tormentor he had in essence allowed his friends to lose their freedom, his breaking down at the fear of being tortured had repeated that outcome. Vinnie's jump to his defence had been the first in a whole line of dominos, the last one falling just as the white mouse did himself.

He hadn't known how to feel each time he saw his bro slipping that little bit further away. Anger? Shame? Regret? Horror? There were plenty to choose from. If he was forced to admit it he probably had felt a little disgusted, partly at what was happening to Vinnie, and partly at Vinnie for having not accepted his role as a slave. Something he had Modo had done a long while ago.

It occurred to him that Vinnie would have sensed some of their less noble thoughts when they had seen him punished, the ones they hadn't been able to hold back, the self-sanctimonious verdict that the poor mouse was getting what he asked for, and that he should have just been a good little slave and submitted. Just like he and Modo had. Spinelessly.

Not that he was proud of that or anything, and he felt certain the grey mouse shared his sentiments. They only gave in because they felt they had no other choice. Something told him Vinnie only gave in to protect the two of them, and not out of self-preservation. Vinnie hadn't asked for any of this.

So if anything he mostly felt disgusted at himself. He knew it was him that had failed; as a leader, as a friend, and as a bro. He also knew it wasn't really his fault, but the burn of regret still inflamed his conscience no matter how hard he tried to block it out.

Blocking things out was pretty much the only way he had managed to survive this long, but every now and again something filtered through, and each time it did he felt it more and more acutely. Lately it had been shame, and lately it had marked him more so than even the brand scar on his thigh.

After a while the feelings of shame and disgust overwhelmed him. He couldn't look at his friend anymore, no matter how much he knew this would further hurt the beaten mouse. He sensed Modo's parallel shift in attitude, noting how the grey mouse could no more bear to glance at that filth-encrusted recess than he could a mirror. To acknowledge the responsibility of his own actions for the plight of their younger, more honourable comrade.

When Throttle realised that the reminder of their failings had vanished, he could only assume the absence of that gentle touch on his mind was due to the lack of the life force behind it. Had Vinnie finally slipped away from them for good? The last time he had forced himself to glance at the sanitation port he had seen a mouse on the verge of losing the last thing he had to offer: his life. Without the bond, he had no idea what had become of his bro, and it troubled him. He hadn't even had a chance to say he was sorry.

Worse still, since admitting the total disconnection from the white mouse, Modo seemed to have drifted from him too. Even when hauled together before the Pit Boss, the pained look the grey mouse usually gave him, the one that screamed 'I want to help you but can't' was vacant, as was anything from the mouse's face. Expressionless. Devoid of emotion. Mechanical and robotic as if he were an entire bionic mouse, and not just his arm.

Eventually the Pit Boss had dismissed Modo from his duties, it finally dawning on him that he would gain nothing from having a slave too broken to perform. That was the last time Throttle had touched his older bro, and though he had seen him later in the mine, and at their cages, they were so far from each other mentally there may as well have been an oceanic wall between them.

Now Throttle was alone. Even if his younger bro was alive, he doubted they would ever be together again. It saddened him, the loss, but more than that it terrified him.

If their master had written off two of the mice as playthings, that left only him. What would happen to him now, he wondered? Would his master continue on as normal, or would he expect him to fulfil the role that Modo had performed? Or would he move him onto other 'duties' – perhaps whatever he had originally intended for Vinnie? Would he be forced to service his master more physically, or more publicly, than he already did?

Until this day Throttle feared he might be the only focus of the callous attentions of the ruler of this world. But then something happened that reminded him that just because he was a mouse, and thus different from the other slaves, did not mean he was the only one worthy of entertaining the insatiable desires of their master.

Throttle had shuffled past the empty recess, giving it one more wistful glance as he made his way back to his cage, and had just crested the rise of the mining pit when he felt a hand on his collar. It had been a while since he had last been taken, perhaps even when Vinnie had still been on display and Modo had last been with him, and suddenly all those worries about what would happen next came flooding in; the dam of guilt and fear bursting through, with no one left to offer him a supportive nod. The grey mouse was nowhere to be seen.

Throttle emptied his bladder before the leash had even been pulled. Sometimes the guards laughed at him for doing so, other times they were disgusted and showed him as much. Today they were quite relaxed, there were no words nor blows of condemnation, and they merely tugged at the chain without a second glance at the dampness in their wake.

The walk to the castle was unhurried, the guards carefree and taking their time with their delivery. Throttle kept his head down and tried not to think of what this happy-go-lucky attitude meant for him, concentrating on placing his feet one step at a time, not wanting to give the guards any reason for reverting to their usual bad tempers.

Once inside the arena it was business as usual, kind of: Chained in front of the throne and his left thigh shaved. Only the Pit Boss wasn't seated in front of him, but casually chatting to one of his crew at the other end of the oval room, paying him little attention.

Throttle breathed. It was far too much to hope that the good mood extended to his treatment as a slave. He peered up through the longer fur on his forehead, peeking cautiously at the direction of his master, searching for any sign he might get out of this relatively unscathed.

The man wasn't giving him any clues either way, but then next minute Throttle knew for sure this wasn't his lucky day. Flint had just entered from the far end of the room, and trailing behind him – terror engrained into his pallid features – was another slave.

_A human? He's replaced Modo with a human?_

That was all Throttle could surmise. Modo wasn't here, but a human slave was, and that suggested to him the other man was a replacement, not an addition. Or so that's what he thought.

The Pit Boss finally took his place on the throne, and the other slave was brought over and connected to the same tether point as Throttle. He wasn't chained like the mice were, on all-fours, but he was naked, and he was leashed. And he gave off a powerful scent of fear, coupled with familiarity and recognition that told the tan mouse this slave was not new to being knelt at his master's feet.

Throttle didn't dare look at the man brushing against his shoulder. He hadn't seen a naked human male before, and knowing just how much embarrassment he felt at being clothesless, he didn't think it fair to add that pressure to this other slave right now.

The Pit Boss stared down at the two of them thoughtfully for a while, a smile just wrinkling his stubbled features, his podgy, grime-covered hands caressing his chin as his eyes drank in the sight before him.

"So..." he began, after an age of silence, "...What is this I have before me now... hmm? What an interesting pair. A slave, and a rat-boy."

The other man quivered, and Throttle felt the shiver against him, causing his own fur to stand on end. What the Pit Boss was planning to do with them  _both_  conjured up all sorts of possibilities. Most of which he would rather not think about.

Suddenly the small smile split into a melon of a grin. "I propose we have a little contest, to see whether or not humans or rats make the better slaves. There will be a prize for the winner, of course... and another for the loser."

There was a titter of amusement from the audience. Throttle wondered if they knew something he didn't, or if they just laughed at every suggestive comment their boss happened to make.

The contest was simple, in both procedure and aim; they would each perform a task, and whoever did it better won. The aim being to force the two of them to compete, knowing that neither would want to be the loser.

It went on for over an hour, accompanied by laughter and cheers as if it were no more sinister than a child's school sports day. To the contrary, Throttle found himself cleaning boots, posing this way and that, running around the room in a direct race with the human (it was hardly fair, he was chained on four legs, the human on two – but in the end it was still close), being whipped until he cried out, and finally competing head on – literally – with the human slave to please his master directly. He never could have imagined fighting with someone to push that vile organ down his throat, let alone to be the one to make it release.

_I wonder if this is what they would have had me and Modo do, in the end?_

Having Modo forced to mount him was one thing, being forced to compete with him to satisfy the Pit Boss between his legs was quite another. He felt sure the man would have enjoyed watching them fight each other just as much as he enjoyed watching them join.

After the hour it was hard to tell who exactly had won. It didn't really feel like a win, or a lose, and from the way the Pit Boss was leering at them both Throttle was convinced now that this hadn't really been a contest at all.

Without a word as to the result, both he and the other slave were taken away back to their respective cages, and Throttle was left once more with nothing other than burning humiliation, and total, utter loneliness. The grey mouse had hardly even acknowledged his return.

The one thing that had struck him about Modo's behaviour was that it had not improved in the slightest, not even since having his sheath freed. The tan mouse could only guess that the pain and the infection had forced him to go into a shut-down state of self-preservation, and that there was nothing he nor anyone could do to bring him round from it, not until he was ready.

Throttle ate his meal dejectedly and lay down to sleep, his mind churning over the events of the day, of the absence of his bro's affections, and of the addition of human slaves to his routine of degradation. He wondered if it had been a one off, or the start of something more regular.

It did become routine, the human presence. Throttle was being taken from the line on average of twice a week, he estimated, and each time there was now a human there with him, sharing the misery and pain of their master's brand of home education. Sometimes it was one he had seen before, other times a new face. The mouse began to suspect that humans did indeed feature regularly in the Pit Boss's evening delights.

He also gained new insight into what their tormentors wanted from slaves of his own species, and there were plenty of similarities to his own expectations, as well as a few differences. For one thing, human slaves were at the receiving end of far more  _personal_  abuse than the mice, with the pit crew and their boss much more keen to interact with humans in that way, and apparently preferring to observe when it came to their rodent prisoners. However, Throttle discovered that his master's fascination in Martian anatomy had not waned in Modo's absence, and he found himself on his back just as frequently as his human co-entertainers found themselves on their knees.

What disturbed the mouse more about this new arrangement was the days when he was simply chained to the wall and made to watch. Before long he realised where the root of the suspicion and jealousy from the other slaves lay. As much as Modo may have been beaten by this man, his sheer size and Martian-bred healing compensated hugely – something that even the largest of humans woefully lacked. Seeing the Pit Boss and his crew lay into the human slaves shocked him; the level of violence meted out to the weaker men stunned and thoroughly sickened him. After a few sessions it came almost of little surprise to him when he witnessed one of them being beaten to death.

That night Throttle sobbed. It was no wonder the other captives had so easily turned against Vinnie when he was punished. The fear-filled whisperings of the slaves were packed with the tales of slaves being taken away only to never return, and yet each time the three furred aliens re-appeared from their own sessions relatively unscathed.

One day, a few weeks later, the news spread that the castle had finally been finished. Throttle hadn't been taken that day, and as he consumed his evening fare his ears twitched as he caught the excitement from the rest of the colony. It was building fast, too, but something deep inside his gut told him that it was far too early to be celebrating just yet.

_This isn't good; this is such a bad idea folks, really._

However someone out there dared to disagree. The mouse could hear a man's voice getting louder, and more and more confident, and more and more demanding. He was shouting at the top of his work-tired lungs. He wanted to know when they would be free.

In retrospect there had been one good thing about this man's brazenness. For a second the tan mouse caught his bro's eye, and he saw it was wide, and anxious, and confused. And deeply concerned. The next second though it was gone, as was the air of joviality that had lingered in the prison for the last few weeks.

There was Flint, his dark eyes a brewing storm, striding toward the braying man's cell with his whip in hand. The entire prison became a vacuum in a single heartbeat, and the only sound that followed was of the cell door being thrown open, and the shuddering gasp of the man as he realised he had made a truly terrible mistake.

"Does anyone else here feel like asking the Pit Boss for their freedom? Speak up now – this might be your last chance!" Flint exclaimed warningly to the dumbstruck colony. Not a single other slave made a sound. The man in the head goon's grip was now weeping in terror.

"Good. Glad we got that out of our systems." Flint kept his voice amplified, making sure that everyone in the prison was in no doubt of what he was saying. "Let's give the man his freedom that he so badly wants."

Into his radio, the fierce-tempered goon murmured that someone was required in the prison yard right away. Throttle couldn't hear the response, even in the relative silence following the uproar, but as soon as he saw who it was marching towards them his heart went from jammed in his throat to the pit of his stomach, plunging sharply like a lead buoy.

And then, despite everything he had seen, and thought, and felt, he too made his first mistake.

"Nooo!" he shouted, "Nooo, Vinnie!"


	31. Protocol seventy-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of history on Kalis and Frost - This chapter jumps back and forth in time a bit, in case you are wondering.

" _Hello? Can anybody hear me? Is anyone out there? Hello?"_

A voice in the darkness, a whisper in the stilled air, a pin-prick in the fabric of space. Its low cries reverberated softly, begging for anyone to hear it, begging for someone to help.

* * *

_Three years earlier..._

"Are you sure about this General? This could be your last chance you know... to go home."

The wearied look on the Admiral's face distorted for a moment, lost in a haze of static on the battered screen of the vid-com. His silver muzzle and grizzled cheeks, and pale opalescence to his eyes just about showed through, and told of a mouse who had aged well before his time. War could do that to you.

He had spent nearly an hour trying to dissuade the injured mouse from returning to duty, insisting that her ordeals would be better worked through in the more familiar setting of the solar system than billions of miles away. He knew he was on the losing side of the argument this time though.

"Yes I am Admiral sir, never been more sure. If I can't get out there and blast those bastards back to their primeval soup myself, then I sure as hell ain't wasting my time behind some desk without any real purpose. I have to do it sir, you know I can't just let it drop now."

The young General's features showed as much determination now as it did back when she joined up. She had never really opted for the army side of the battle, preferring the less rigid, more open style of the freedom fighter units. Somehow over the years the two forces had merged, blurring the lines between the military and civilian fighters, yet even now with the formality of the rank of General she still preferred to think of herself primarily as a freedom fighter.

The Admiral sighed, relenting to her wishes. "In that case, I wish you all the best. I know you already have your team picked out, and I know you are familiar with the recommended protocols. I hear you even added a few of your own, thanks to the intelligence you gathered whilst on that polluted fish-pond moon."

The younger mouse laughed. "You know me too well Admiral. I assure you the mission is in safe hands."

The old Martian offered her one last look to change her mind, and seeing no wavering in her stance on the issue he smiled sadly. It had been too difficult, he thought, to tell her. Hinting that this was the last opportunity for the General to return to Mars was as far as he went, but in truth that ship had already long since departed. Five years ago, in fact, when the exploration and reconnaissance teams had left the system, taking with them what now were the only spacecraft left of Martian design. The rest had been taken out by the Plutarkians not long after they had gone.

There was no way home, not unless they succeeded. This mission was what was left of that original hope. General Kalis was Mars's last chance. She would lead the last leg of this long, drawn out battle for existence, positioned right there in the bosom of the enemy, just waiting for the moment to pierce it in its beating heart.

The base they were sending her to, that she requested be sent to, would see no one pass through its doors until that day came, the day when Plutark fell and when Mars was free. When everyone was free. This wasn't just about a vantage point to attack from – far from it - this was about creating an alliance. A central hub of operations, coordinating the remaining teams out there, the ones that had been left adrift once all long-range travel to Mars had been suspended. This would be a way of gathering information, acting on that information, making friends... And, one day, when the time was right, taking out the enemy. Once and for all.

"Good luck, Kalis. Mars won't forget you for this. I won't..."

The Admiral felt his connection weaken. Not just the visual one, which was failing anyway - the power source on his end was draining fast in the wake of another bombing - but the one between him and the young mouse billions of miles away. The one forged between them at her birth. The one between father and daughter.

Kalis was closing her mind to him, as they had agreed. This would be too painful with the lingering bond between her and her kin. Deep inside they both knew they would never see each other again.

"Goodbye... father..." she whispered, as both the vid-com and her inner sense gradually darkened. "Goodbye."

* * *

"What is it Sir? Is something wrong? Who's coming?"

The yellow-furred alien from comms looked down at the rat in confusion. He had been sent with an urgent message from Sol, who monitored long-range transmissions, and had not expected such a solemn, meaningful reaction as this.

Frost was still cradling the young General in his arms, stroking her tear-soaked cheeks, his own face as sad and as stilled as someone who had just come to some terrible realisation – yet was taking it well. No hysteria. That's why he was good for this base, no matter how bad things were the rat never lost his cool.

What they had witnessed just minutes before in the control room had shocked most of the crew, for they had never seen the commander looked so riled. The only explanation was that it was something to do with the General, because everybody knew just how much he loved that mouse.

But it made no sense at all to the alien from comms how Sol's ominous message had any bearing on the commander's relationship with the Martian General – other than the strange outburst from earlier. What was it that had upset him so much?

"Commander? Sol says he wants to see you... umm..."

"I know, Firio, it's urgent. It's very urgent, in fact. Go back to the control room; tell Sol I want the logs, date and time-stamped. Tell Holo to organise data folding. Get on the comms, alert any teams on channel. Then get on the intercom and send out a base-wide alert. Do it now, quickly, calmly. We may not have much time."

Firio stood there with his jaw dropped. The only part of that set of orders he had any idea about was data folding – the process of compacting all their intel data on file into one digital space, and copied onto three chips. One for the General, one for the commander, and one for a nominated crew member, usually someone who had nothing to do with operations. Usually someone the enemy wouldn't kill either, like a doctor. Most of the staff were medically trained, but the primary physician on board was Canix, who was also the lead chef.

As far as he was aware, unless this was a drill, data folding was only performed when a ship or a base was about to be abandoned.

"Sir... is this...?" There was only one explanation for it, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. The connotations he had come to associate with it were all too raw in his heart.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Protocol seventy-seven."

* * *

The sunset here was spectacular, not just for the way the atmosphere made the dusk glow greens and purples instead of the more familiar orange hue, but for the iridescent shimmers as the radiation skimmed the outer layers much like the surface tension of water bounced a flattened stone away. It was something so unique to this planet that it had not been documented in any scientific way, and probably never would either. They were only stopping here to make repairs, one last chance at external maintenance on their vessel before the final, and longest, leg of their journey.

This would be the last sunset they would ever see. They lay together on the sun-warmed rock, which only hours before had been baking hot in the short, intense daylight. Now it was pleasant, negating the chill as the planet turned, allowing them a comfortable period to rest before they were forced to return to the ship.

All the crew would be relaxing now, briefly, after their day spent working hard to get flight ready. They had landed the ship, strategically, within the cup-shaped depression in a rocky outcrop, sheltered on all sides from the hostility of the planet's extreme weather, and screened from the view of anything that may be lurking on the surface that did not feel too happy with their presence.

Frost lay his head back, the fading light allowing them a fair view of the vast expanse above. In the crook of his shoulder a grey-furred head nuzzled into him, the soft-emerald eyes that had seconds ago reflected the sky now closed, heavy lidded from the heat of his body and the diffusive warmth of the plateau.

This was bliss. He hadn't even known he felt this way about the mouse, not really, not until that morning when she had slipped and he had caught her, and the near-electric force within her had somehow ghosted its way through to him in that single touch. Her antennae had brushed his arm as he had pulled her up, and until that point he had never felt the awesome connection that Martian mice had to offer.

And then he knew, his suspicions about her confirmed. She loved him, and he loved her, and it had taken something so simple, so automatic a reaction between comrades, between friends, for them to both realise the fact.

"It's so beautiful. I wish we could record this, and replay it every night..." he murmured, his tail responding to his mood by snaking its way slowly over his own legs, and onto the mouse's. "Do you think we will ever get to see anything like this again? Does the base even have a sunset?"

Kalis nuzzled him harder, tensing slightly as she felt the pressure of his sparsely-haired tail around her calf and then relaxing again, exhaling the sweet musk she had drawn deeply into herself from his snow-dust fur.

"Umm..." she began, her snout still buried in his armpit. Did the base have a sun? She didn't think so, or at least it wasn't in direct orbit around any star. The rocky anchor for their new home wasn't adrift; from what she knew it was locked in orbit around a moon, and that moon was one of many around a planet, and that planet one of many around a double-star. In the Piscean sector. The fish nebula. Plutarkian space.

"I guess we will see when we get there... won't we?" Frost continued, whispering, his breath quite visible now in the rapidly cooling air.

Kalis suddenly sat up, and peered down at her gentle mate's soft features, half lit by the fading sun and the brightening stars. She had detected a slight cracking to his voice as he had spoken, and felt through her antennae something deeper than his face was showing. The rat was sad, somewhat, a heaviness holding him back from the excitement of their new mission. Of their new life... together. It wouldn't be easy, they both acknowledged that, but at least they would be with each other.

Until the very end.

Kalis laid a kiss on the tip of his long snout, and ran her slender, velvet fingers down his chest. She didn't need to say anything. He already knew.

* * *

"Commander Frost, i'm so sorry Sir if I had seen it any sooner."

Sol was wide-eyed and babbling, pointing at the screen and printouts and maps and codes, ranting on about days and times and numbers and details of log files from weeks and months and years ago. None of it really mattered now, but Frost listened intently, waiting for the clue to emerge.

"Sol. Calm yourself. You and I and everyone here knows you did not miss anything. Only you could have spotted this, and you saw it in time. It may not seem like it, but you did."

Frost was looking down at the file in his hands, the last printout of the logs. The Plutarkian fleet on its way to their base had given themselves away at last, a careless mistake perhaps, or ignorance of their scanning capabilities.  Whatever; it didn't matter. They had made themselves known, and they had made their intentions quite clear, even if they hadn't actually done so directly.

They were on their way to destroy them, or take them prisoner. Probably both, they would take the people and destroy the base, but not until they had retrieved every last bit of valuable information on where their active teams were positioned, and what they used to communicate, and so on; and anything they couldn't get they would extract from the base crew. Forcefully.

And they were only eighty-two minutes away.

"But Sir... you asked me to keep an eye. I must have missed something. For them to be here so fast they must have... when we... fifty-seven."

"I know Sol, but really it wasn't your fault. If anything it's mine; I should have acted sooner."

Sol looked at him confused for a moment, and then nodded. This was what had been going on between him and the General. He knew something had, heck most of the crew knew it wasn't as simple as exhaustion, or a stomach bug, or Martian fever. How exactly the General had caused them to have lost their long-held position of secrecy in Plutarkian space he didn't know, couldn't imagine. The woman was a stickler for rules and protocols. There was no way she was a traitor.

Or was she? Had she been turned when kept prisoner by the fish? Sol shook his head. Never. No way. Not her.

"Sir, we should begin evac procedures now. We need to be away before they come into visual range."

This was Argyre, one of the Martian officers on the base in charge of personnel and on-base security. So far in the three years he had been here, he had only had to deal with two cases of lockdown procedure, one because of the outbreak of gut-flux (their term for the food poisoning episode), and one when one of the officers had gone off the rails when his mate had been killed in action. He had been so upset he had taken Canix hostage, demanding he be allowed to take his mate's body home for burial, but ended up taking his own life instead when refused.

It had been a sad time and everyone felt for him, and missed him - even Kalis. But no one else on the base was quite as close to anyone else out in the field, and the problem did not arise again.

So for Argyre this was a pretty big deal, his moment to shine at last. He wanted to do it right seeing as it would be his one and only shot. He looked at Frost with that look of clear-thinking determination that had won him the role, and in returned received the nod. "Do it, everyone's already had the alert. Get as many to the pods as possible. The rest will transport to the exchange point."

Argyre nodded and went to work. Holo, the young Plutarkian officer, reported in that the data folding was near completion. Firio returned from archives, having checked for anything important that might not be on computer, and vaporising the rest.

Frost looked about him. This was it. Sixty-nine minutes and counting now.

* * *

"Do you think they'll understand? I mean it's more than just our lives at stake here, it's everything."

"They will. If they weren't able then they wouldn't have signed up for this. You wouldn't have picked them. Both they and you knew when they sat at that table and signed that form."

Kalis sighed, leaning forwards on her small dresser and staring into its mirror. They had only been on site for a day and already she was wishing she had never come. A small part of her, anyway. The part that had looked up into the sky that day, the amber glow of home, her last look at her birthplace before stepping away from it forever. That part of her had never wanted to leave the burnt sands of Mars all those years ago. It was too late to back out now, though, for the ship had already been taken away for field operations.

"But... when it happens, and we both know it will, will they change their minds? Will they think less of me, as a person?  As a General? I'm supposed to make the right decisions, what if this isn't one of those?"

"It is. You know it is. Protocol seventy-seven isn't about abandoning your people, it's about saving them. You don't want a repeat of sixteen do you? That's why you've done this. To spare them what you went through. To spare us all."

Frost pulled her from her stool and into his arms, wrapping her in close, feeling for a second the deep divide inside her heart. He didn't know how he felt it, because it wasn't something his people were able to amongst themselves, but with her it was like... like a merging of water, him a tiny stream trickling into a larger river and being swept away with it, his life force supported somehow by hers.

"But what if I can't do it? What if I can't follow my own orders?"

Frost smiled, gently tipping her chin upwards so that she could meet his gaze and see the honesty in his reply. "That's what you have me for, that's why i'm here."

* * *

He had always known it would come to this, eventually. They had discussed it at length, many times, before they had even left the outpost medical centre; before they had crossed the vast ocean of worlds to reach this place; before they had made it formal and official in front of their crew.

There were only three escape pods, and each held eight people. There were thirty-nine members of the crew on this base, and the fifteen who would not be able to use the pods were to use the transporter to escape to the trade point, and use the portable communicator to signal for help. However this was not a long-range signaller, the only thing powerful enough to accomplish that was fixed into the control room itself. Before they could leave the base they had to make sure that the signal went out. There was a small camp already set up on the moon where they did all of their physical trades, and this would keep them going for a short while until rescue. The transporter was not capable of sending them anywhere else, for security reasons.

Frost had already sent through the first team to the rocky station, five of the crew who had volunteered or been drawn to not use the escape pods – which was the preferred way. The next five were due to go through now, and he bid them goodbye for the moment.

After that, all that was left was for the remaining crew to leave. Five would go through to the moon camp, the others to the pods. Sol and Holo had volunteered to go through the transporter, and the remaining three due to go with them were hovering nervously nearby.

"Sir. You need to go now" whispered Sol into the rat's ear. "They are literally minutes away; the other two pods have already left."

"I'm not going until everyone else has... I... It should be me going to the surface not you." Frost looked distraught. He knew he was risking lives by waiting any longer, but having not had his name drawn for the trade site, he had no choice but to leave before the place was fully evacuated.

"You have to go Sir. I'm going to send the other three through now; Holo and I will hang on until the last second, in case someone gets the signal... better chance."

Frost understood. It was one thing blasting out an SOS and hoping for the best, but it was even better if they had someone pick up the other end and say 'what's up/where are you?' and you being there to tell them.

The pods had their own weak propulsion, and their own distress beacons. Both the pods and the camp would be hoping that they were found sooner rather than later, and by someone friendly. Because if they didn't, then protocol seventy-seven would have to be enacted in its entirety. There were to be no prisoners from this base, they would make damn sure of that.

Firio was at his side now, his yellow fur looking pale. He held the General in his arms, cradled, having gone to retrieve her as soon as they were ready to depart. Kalis was still not responsive, just drifting between unconsciousness and staring glassy-eyed, mumbling incoherently.

"Will she be ok, commander? What's wrong with her?"

"No time to explain, did you do as I asked?"

Firio nodded, and indicated to the pocket in Kalis's shirt. Frost pulled out the strip of cloth and wound it around his mate's head, covering her eyes. He then leant forward and kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry" he murmured, before straightening up again. No one dared question what he had just done.

"Take her to the pod, i'll be right behind you."

"Be quick, commander" Firio warned, before taking off with the General in his arms.

"He's right sir, you had better go." Holo held out his finned hand, and Frost grasped it for a moment. "It's been an honour sir."

"I'll see you on the other side, Holo. Sol?" Frost turned once more to the furred alien, who had just sent the other three officers through the transporter. "Get him out of here in one piece, won't you? This kid's got far to go."

Frost patted the young Plutarkian on the shoulder, gazing at him almost paternally. If there was anyone on this base he trusted it was this fish. He may have been a junior member of their team, but he had given so much to be here, and made a real difference in their eternal fight against his own species.

Sol nodded, and turned back to his station. He would not be leaving there until the last possible moment, and he had to make every second count if they were to survive. He had to get help, and fast.

"Go commander!" He yelled over his shoulder, and with one last look at where he had called home for so long now, the rat nodded and obeyed.

He had just reached the pod when he felt it. The blast from the Plutarkian space cruiser nearly knocked him from his feet, and hands were reaching out to haul him in the pod and get the airlock closed behind him.

Another strike. Alarms were sounding. Any second now and they would be breaching their defences. They had a small automated system that armed when any threat came too close for comfort. If anything came any closer than that, the system opened fire.

No doubt it had put a small dent in the fleet descending on their rocky platform, but not enough to stop them. As the pod glided silently away they felt the force of another blast, the wave of energy ricocheting from the small asteroid and outwards, actually pushing them further away as they rode the crest.

From the small portal in the pod they watched as their base, their home, their sharp-tipped blade through which they were cutting a path to freedom; they watched as it was slowly dismantled and then destroyed before their eyes.

The Plutarkians must have done a sweep of the base, and probably realised the place had been evacuated and the data erased. It wasn't very long after that before their ships vaporised the entire rock on which it sat.

"Firio?"

"Yes Sir."

Frost looked on at the debris that was slowly drifting apart, hoping above all that the Plutarkian ships didn't spot their tiny vessel hiding in the shadow of the sister-asteroid, which itself had helped shield the base for so long.

"Did... did they...?"

"Our sensors picked up the distress beacon going out... but... it's not clear if they got a reply."

"And the trade point? Do we have a connection to them?"

Firio pressed buttons on the pod's comm system for a while, whilst Frost turned his attention to the mouse who was now in his own arms. She was still blindfolded, and probably would stay that way for a long while – at least until he found out how to fix her. "Don't worry Kalis, everything's going to be ok" he breathed, rocking her gently. She clung onto his arms, but didn't try to move otherwise. After a few minutes she relaxed again, and fell limply back into a stupor.

The rest of the crew on this pod were sitting on the benches in the main bay. There wasn't a lot of space, and everyone on board looked halfway between frightened and miserable, and very tired and confused.

Frost knew just how they felt.

He realised Firio was trying to get his attention again, and lay the sleeping mouse down on his bench before going to him.

"Well? Have we got through?"

"I don't know how to tell you this sir..." began Firio, who was keeping his voice very, very low.

"What is it? Did Sol and Holo make it through?"

"That's just it sir – I don't know. The trade point... it's..." Firio looked up from the comms desk, his eyes full of sorrow.

Frost nodded. He knew that Sol and Holo would never allow themselves to be captured. Whether or not they made it off the base was irrelevant. The trade point had also been destroyed.


	32. A place in return

Of all the places a slave could live, this had to be the most comfortable in all the Pits. It may not have had plush furnishings nor bright and cheery decor – far from it – it was dark and gloomy like the rest of the dwellings down here, thrown up in haste from rough materials, crafted out of necessity not aesthetics, and not at all designed with anything beyond manual labour in mind. Function over form, and little else.

The previous tenant had had his own separate living quarters elsewhere, which no doubt was much nicer than the sparse sitting room the current occupant was forced to reside in. Nevertheless, for a slave this was a tiny piece of luxury in an otherwise brutally barren world, and for its guest inhabiting the straw pile in the workshop, the place was practically heaven. Comparatively speaking.

The rough bedding felt softer than anything he could ever remember, and the heat – tepid at night and a sweltering furnace by day – the heat was something that had a medicinal property all its own, at least once the fever had subsided.

But for all its comforting qualities it was still just another prison, one of many in this vast and hopeless place, and it certainly did not provide any protection when it came to the stark and violent existence that was the life of a slave.

The Pit Boss and his crew had made damn sure of that.

In the aftermath of his carer's ritual abuse Vinnie lay there wondering if there was such thing as freedom, if there was hope, if simple kindness even meant anything anymore? He wondered about his own life, and how it had turned so sharply and so deeply downwards that there seemed no possibility of ever climbing upwards from its current position. Could things get any worse for him down here? Had he finally hit the bottom of the deepest, darkest place of the Pits?

Even if he could pull himself up a little, what future could he look forward to? Wes had done that very thing, somehow, and yet here he was still working himself half to death, still being treated no better than a thing, a tool to be used, a man to be abused. Not even a man, but a lowly, powerless slave.

What hope did he have if even someone like Wes was still at their brutal captor's mercy? He was nothing now but a mere animal, voiceless, chained, lying on a bed of straw and thinking it was the best thing he had ever known, or would ever know from now on. How could an animal ever become something more if even a man was denied such a chance?

And what of his bros? They had been the one last thing in his dismal life that reminded him of who he once was. They had been the only connection he had to that feeling of love and comradery, their closeness through all things terrible, their never-ending fight for good, and for freedom.

But that bond had been broken, and they had drifted from him further into darkness, with no way of ever coming back. They had cast him adrift too, forcing him to make the last major decision of his life. Submit or die.

He had chosen death, but he was not allowed that choice. There was no choice, it was all an illusion. Freedom was now nothing but a mirage in a sun-baked desert, his bros fallen behind him somewhere out in the sands, lost, alone, forgotten.

But he hadn't forgotten them, they had forgotten him; it was him fallen out there in the dunes, burnt and buried and broken. At least they were still standing, albeit with their heads lowered. He was down, and he didn't know if he would ever be able to get back up again. If he would ever even be allowed to.

After pulling himself together again, Wes had returned to the workshop to take care of him, the mask he wore firmly back in place. Even if he had been able to, Vinnie would never have made mention of what had just happened; it was something both of them had experienced and thus both silently understood the need to stay composed, and to not let  _them_  see how much it hurt.

So by the next morning it was as if nothing had ever happened, except for the deep purple bags weighted under the man's eyes, and the frequent yawning, and the near constant flow of coffee from pot to mouth throughout the day. How the welder managed to function at all Vinnie did not know, but somehow he did.  Somehow he managed to get through the enormous task-list he had been given for that day, and on top of that made time to feed and clean and medicate his ailing guest.

The stomach pains were lessening now, and the fever slowly weakening, but he still was very poorly. That evening, after another change of newspaper (there had been several throughout the day, the waste burnt for fuel on the forge), Wes had disappeared into his private quarters for a while, and returned looking refreshed and more at ease. He had finally had time for a hot bath, and the dirtied water would not be wasted. Vinnie had his second whole-body soak since his release from the sewer, and he too felt the therapeutic effects of the hot water. It soothed his aches, and lulled him half to sleep, that sacred place to escape all worries of what his life had been, and had become.

Tonight both carer and patient sincerely hoped for an uninterrupted evening of rest and recovery, but as was the norm for the Pits they didn't get their wish.

It was already late, and Wes was just about to douse his lamps and turn in for the night, having already tucked the blanket around the white-furred body snuggled into his workshop corner. If it hadn't been for the obvious effects of his sickness, the man might have been tempted to curl up with him. That straw pile looked so much more comfortable than his armchair, he thought.

Just before he had put out the last of the workshop lights there was a bang on his door. Vinnie could practically hear the man's pulse rate rocketing upwards as he fumbled with the locks, and he could see his composure flicker slightly as he steeled himself for his latest visitor.

And no wonder. The Pit Boss did not need an invitation, nor reason to visit any more than Flint, or in fact anyone of his crew who desired an audience with the welder. He stood there in the dimly lit workshop, surveying the room with a mixture of curiosity and interest – almost as if he had not been here before, or rarely so. He cast his mean, darting eyes over Wes, who was flushed on his face but otherwise non-reactive, and then allowed them to drift downwards and to the corner of the room where the blanket-covered bundle lay. He looked satisfied, almost, and a small smirk crept onto his air-chapped lips.

This was no casual check-up, no chat over a hot drink. The Pit Boss had a purpose to this visit, as he always did.

"So, Wes. Keeping up with your duties?"

Wes had kept his eyes lowered from the moment his boss had entered the room, and did not look up to answer. "Yes sir, I am."

The Pit Boss nodded, noting perhaps that the forge had only just been quenched, and that the objects he requested be made were lying out on the bench. "Good good. I have your duties for tomorrow." The Pit Boss absently dropped the new list on the wooden desk, then turned again to look at the mouse, who now was barely inches from his thick-soled boots.

"Thank you, sir." Wes had been expecting his master to show up at some point, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so soon.  _Surely he knows the mouse won't be ready for him yet?_

"Is there anything I can do for you tonight sir?"

"Just checking in. How long until the rat is ready?"

Wes swallowed hard. He hated these sorts of question, the kind where he knew the answer would not be the one wanted. "Not for a while, at least a couple of weeks..."

The Pit Boss cut him off with a wave, not needing a full explanation. It was obvious that the white mouse was in no state for any sort of play right now, and for what he had planned he needed him to be at least able to stand.

Kneeling down now, he could see the gleam of fever-sweat on the mouse's forehead, and the slight trembling in his body. Partly from fear, no doubt, but he was also shivering from the sickness, his body trying desperately to rid itself of the infection and struggling to find that precious equilibrium of thermal stability. "No matter..." the foul-smelling man breathed into the terrified mouse's face, "...For now I just want a few words with my slave."

Wes nodded but stayed silent. He knew better than to assume he was dismissed, and stood back in the dying glow of his candles, watching to see what the odious man intended to do now.

The Pit Boss bent lower towards the fur-covered figure before him, dropping his voice to a purr-like murmur.

"My little rat-boy... so helpless... can't do anything for himself... so dependent now... aren't you?"

Vinnie had no doubt that as sick as he was, his master would not hesitate to punish him even now. He nodded.

"You rely on my dear, trusty Wes to take care of you now, don't you? To feed you, clean you, give you medicine... yes?"

Vinnie nodded.

"Without him you would be all alone... no one to take care of you... left to rot away, unnoticed... unloved..."

The Pit Boss was stroking his face, caressing his large-lobed ears, rubbing his dirt-encrusted digits over his damp fur. Vinnie nodded again, a single tear escaping down his snout. The man rubbed it away with his thumb, smiling almost tenderly.

"You don't ever want to go back in the sewer cage, back in that hole where everyone can see you, but no one looks?" he continued on, still wiping the damp trail as he spoke, his voice soft and low. "Where no one wants to look. Where you stand there in shame, where even your friends won't acknowledge you because of what you did. Of what you have become. Worthless, friendless, nothing more than the shit you were covered in..."

The callous crone knew what he was saying, what his effect his words would have - and it was working.

The mouse let another few tears loose down his face, stung by the harshness of what he heard. Even though deep inside he knew the Pit Boss was cruel-tongued, mocking him, and manipulating him, there was plenty of truth still in what he was saying.

His bros had stopped looking at him, disgusted at him for not accepting his place, and then for breaking and being punished in the way that he was. The Pit Boss was right. He was nothing. The only person in the whole world who cared anything for him now was the metal-working man, and even he was probably doing it on orders.

Vinnie nodded again, sadly, and felt his chin being turned upwards so that he was forced to look into his master's eyes.

"I bet you would do anything to not have to go into that cage again, wouldn't you my little rat?"

The mouse's eyes widened as he felt the blanket being pulled back, and one of the hands that had been holding his head moving downwards; stroking his dulled fur; tracing his fingers over the bony frame that was now his wasted body; reaching down and down, further and further until he was cupping his flesh and taking hold of him once more.

He felt sick, much like he did that day in the throne room when he had first been touched. But he knew not to pull away. Vinnie had seen what happened to those who tried to hide themselves from this man, and he shuddered with the memory.

Even though he was bitter at his older bro for completely ignoring him yesterday, he still felt a pang of pity for what he must have gone through. Despite the break in their connection he could still empathise with the grey mouse's pain. Modo had paid a heavy price for trying to keep his modesty from the vile, wandering hands of the Pit Boss.

The man's fingers kept on exploring him and Vinnie moaned softly behind his thread-sown lips, more tears trickling down his salt-sodden face. Is this what his master meant about doing anything? Or was that doing nothing? Lying here and letting himself be touched, caressed without the warm tenderness that such actions were meant to carry with them.

Vinnie felt his sheath being withdrawn, and dry skin tracing his sensitive flesh. It was so horrible, it really was, but a small part of him was coming to realise that pleasing his master was his only purpose now, and he might as well embrace it. His body seemed to think so too, and soon the Pit Boss was letting him go and smiling at him. Wickedly.

"I'm glad to see we have an understanding, rat-boy. I guess you do remember my lessons after all, in particular lesson number one. Continue like this and you might find yourself rewarded. You would like that, wouldn't you? To be rewarded for your actions, and not just punished?"

Standing at the doorway to his sitting room Wes frowned. He had listened carefully to this one-sided exchange, and quite easily understood the intentions behind the Pit Boss's words. His master really was a clever man, there was no denying it. To many he looked nothing more than a foul brute, unclean and uneducated, a thug. It was clear though to anyone who paid attention that there was much, much more to this person than anyone cared to imagine.

He knew exactly what he was doing; he had a plan that he had been following the whole time, probably from the moment he had ever laid eyes on the three alien beings. One by one he had cracked them, broken them down, and got them to do exactly what he wanted. None quite so spectacularly, though, as the mute white mouse lying at his feet right now.

From what Wes could see, everything was turning out just how his master had expected. The mouse was nodding frantically. If his hands had lingered any longer, the Pit Boss might have found them being nuzzled in fearful affection by his most broken, and now most willing of slaves.

The Pit Boss stood up, grinning with intense satisfaction. "That'll be all for tonight Wes. See to it that you get everything done on that list. And keep me up to date with the rat's progress. I'll be calling by again when you have him on his feet."

And with that he was gone, and the welder exhaled in relief. He was not looking forward to having to report in that the mouse was fit for service once again.

From his bed on the floor the mouse sighed, unsure of what exactly he had just done, but nonetheless feeling something... else... that he hadn't before this evening.

It wasn't exactly purpose; it wasn't clarity, nor confidence, but a tiny part of him had found something vaguely resembling stability in that interaction, knowing that he had pleased his master and that if he kept on doing so his future would be much less uncertain than it had been half an hour ago.

If that really did mean doing anything and everything that was asked of him, then maybe that wouldn't be so bad. If Wes could find himself a place down here, even one as tentative as this, then maybe he could too, in his own way. Maybe it wouldn't matter that his bros had abandoned him. Maybe he didn't need them anymore.

Maybe the Pit Boss was right. After Wes, maybe the only person who could give him anything anymore was the man who wanted him to give everything in return. His master.


	33. Test of Obedience

In the days that followed his release from the sewer-like cage, Vinnie slowly managed to recover from the infection wracking his body, and regain a little of his lost strength. With being fed by the various foodstuffs that the metal-working man normally sustained himself on, and treated with the concoctions of home-made and prescription medicines alike, the sickness and frailty that had overtaken the mouse's body soon began to retreat. Cradled in the warmth of the man's workshop, and nursed by those forge-worn hands, the broken Martian body finally had what it needed to rebuild itself. Not completely, but enough to get back him on his feet again.

It took nearly a week before that happened, and not without several attempts – with Wes doing his best to take some of his weight whilst he figured out how to make his legs support himself again. With that accomplished, Vinnie was locked back into his collar, and tethered to the rings by his makeshift bedding once more.

He didn't mind, he wasn't about to go running off – he was still very weak, and at least this place was warm and comfortable, and he was allowed to lie down. Wes made sure of that. The welder took care of everything he needed, from syringing the mashed nutrition and medicines into his stomach, to bathing away the soiling from his illness, and making sure he got up and moved around enough to not just waste away.

The only thing the welder could not fix was something much deeper inside his patient, something beyond physical injury, something that could not be dabbed with ointment and simply bandaged up.

Wes knew that the mouse's punishment had done more than just break his body, and his will. And he knew that it would not be very long before their master came back to capitalise on this unexpected windfall of his long-running wager.

In fact it wasn't very long at all. No sooner had he radioed through with his daily update on the mouse's progress, did the Pit Boss come calling to ensure things continued in the way that he most desired.

It was quite disturbing to watch, and after only a few minutes of observing how the Pit Boss manipulated the mouse into believing his friends had ditched him in favour of their own survival, and guided him into thinking that his master was now the only one who cared for him – so long as he did what he was told – Wes felt too sickened to stand there silently any longer. He tentatively turned away from the scene of the mouse's deepening subservience and buried himself back in the work he had to complete for that day. It was the only way to stop himself remembering another time he had seen this happen.

It must have been nearly an hour when the voice finally broke through his concentration. The Pit Boss was standing, and though he still had his eyes firmly at the body at his feet, there was no doubt he was talking to him now.

"Wes... have you the pointer I requested you make for me?"

_The pointer... what..? Oh. That._

Wes grimaced as he realised the Pit Boss's use of school-based terminology was code for something else entirely. He supposed the thing did look vaguely like the kind of telescopic pointer that lecturer's used to indicate items on a screen or board, but in fact this was a tool not just for demonstration purpose.

The welder dropped his hammer and hurried to dig out the stick that his master had put on the list from two months earlier. It was long, thin and retractable, and made from a much more delicate metal alloy than pure iron, or forged steel. It had taken him hours to make it just right – he wasn't used to making metal objects that were flexible in any way – not counting those items that employed rings and joints to make them more versatile.

He made to hand over the rod to the Pit Boss, but the man shook his head. He was pulling the mouse up from the straw pile and onto his feet, and Wes noticed the mouse was now trembling violently, his face pulled in an expression of sheer alarm. And dismal acceptance.

The Pit Boss was now talking to his mouse slave again. Wes's heart sunk as the words hit his ears.

_Oh man. I knew this would happen._

There had still be thirteen days left on Vinnie's punishment, and his master had not forgotten this. He had come to claim what he was owed, but instead of requiring it be paid in time he had decided on another, more immediate method. Pain.

"This one last thing, rat, and your punishment will be over. You understand that don't you? I have a position to keep down here, and I can't be seen to be too lenient, especially not with slaves who disobey me, and more so with slaves who attack my men."

Vinnie was panting through his nose, his eyes wet, his chest heaving. He didn't know exactly what was coming, all he could think of was that now he was able to stand he was going back in the sewer, and that thought terrified him more than anything. He didn't want to go back there, not ever.

 _Please nooo... please no i'll do anything but don't put me back in there,_ he thought desperately to himself, still quite unaware of what was really coming.  

"Don't worry little rat, this will all be over soon." The Pit Boss turned to the welder, who was taking a few deep breaths of his own. He had had to do this kind of thing before, but he had never felt any sort of responsibility before now, nor attachment. Wes wasn't sure he could do it, not this time.

"Sir..?"

"Yes Wes. Thirteen lashes. After that I think we can forget about this whole episode and move onwards. The rat needs to take a step in the right direction, yes, but not until he has fulfilled his punishment."

He pulled on the mouse's tail to hold him still, and Vinnie froze, finally seeing what it was in the welder's forge-burned hands.

Wes shook his head slightly, trying to put his mind elsewhere. He shouldn't allow himself to care, indeed he couldn't. How was he meant to perform his duties if he felt any affection for this mouse, or any of the other slaves? This was nothing new. He had branded, chained and tortured slaves before - whipping this one now should be no different.

He nodded, and stepped forward. "Yes Sir" he whispered, before bringing the gleaming metal rod up above his head.

There was no point in trying to go easy on the mouse. The Pit Boss would only make him do it again, and again, until he did it how he wanted.

For a second he caught the pink of his patient's eyes, which were staring up at him filled with fear and resignation. They both knew there was no other way around this.

"Mmmmmmmph!" Vinnie cried, time and time again as the rod connected with his back, the taut skin over his prominent bones splitting open, red lines deep and weeping, and stinging with the blows.

"Just a few more mouse" the Welder murmured, trying his best to not let his voice, or his nerve, falter in the presence of their master.

Vinnie was shaking his head, his body wanting him to dodge the swing of the metal rod, his mind doing its best to will him to stay still. "Mmm mmmm mmmmmph MMMMMMPH!" He whimpered pitifully with each lash, losing count the moment the searing pain took over him.

And then it was over. Thirteen lashes. His punishment now complete in its entirety.

"Clean up the blood, stitch his wounds. Continue to feed him up – I will make sure you get all the supplies you need. You have another week and then I want him." Their monstrous master was already heading for the door, and he seemed pleased, but behind the twitching corners of his lips there was more. He was serious, deadly serious. "The castle will be complete soon. I want to get the next phase moving along. Don't disappoint me, Wes."

The welder nodded. Nothing would save him from his owner's wrath should he fall short of his wishes. "Yes sir, I will."

_The castle... completed? I'm guessing this won't be much cause for celebration for some, not by the sound of it._

Wes was right. The finishing of the castle was only the beginning of what the Pit Boss had envisaged for himself and his men, and in turn was the start of something else entirely for his slaves.

Vinnie was still in pain and shock from his beating, but the ominous words of his owner had gotten through to him. Suddenly he felt uncertain again, it wasn't so clear cut as to just do as he was told. There was more, more things to happen that he couldn't imagine. What would become of him, and the others, once the castle was finished? He doubted anyone would be set free, but without a purpose such as mining the rock and constructing the centrepiece of their world, what else could be done with several hundred slaves?

Was he going to kill them?

Was he going to kill some of them? His bros? Him?

No. No, he wouldn't go through all this trouble just to have the three of them murdered, disposed of now that they were past usefulness. For he had no doubt that as the focal point of the depraved demon that was their owner, there were plenty of things that they could still do for him.

He thought back to the agreement he had entered into, the one to keep him alive and away from that cage. He would do anything for his master.  _Anything_. But now there was this unforeseen turn in the future of this place. What did the Pit Boss want to do with him, and more to the point: what did the Pit Boss want him to do, and when asked – would he be able to do it?

* * *

The week went by, the lashes to his back began to knit under their stitches, and the sickness in his guts finally cleared away completely. He was standing, and walking. His eyes were clear, his vision less fogged. He had finally stopped soiling his bedding. The only thing that he still could not do, even if allowed, was to speak or eat by himself.

The Pit Boss had whispered to him that if he was very good, one day he might let him have that ability once more.

After months of being syringe-fed whatever anyone felt like giving him, and after months of relying on medicines to make sure it all stayed down, Vinnie was quite ready to embrace whatever tasks were presented to him, with only the hope of having his mouth free to help make him do so.

Wes took him into the arena as soon as the week was up, and Vinnie was left chained at the foot of the throne. Wondering. Waiting.

What happened next took him completely by surprise. The Pit Boss leaned forwards and detached him from the tether, and pulled the mouse upwards into his lap. For a few minutes he embraced him, cocooning him in the lingering stench of sweat and unwashed body, making Vinnie feel distinctly sick at both the gut-churning odour and the disgusting feel of being so close to this vilest of men.

"I have a special task for you my dear rat, do you think you're ready for it? Are you ready to do everything your master wants of you without question? Without hesitation?" The Pit Boss crooned in his ear, and Vinnie tensed. 

This was it. That point, again, where he had to make a decision... and live with it.

He nodded.

"Excellent." The Pit Boss stoked him a little, and Vinnie found himself pressing into the hand on his cheek, hoping above all this might show his master he was willing. "Yes, good boy... my good boy... first you have to prove yourself to me, of course, you'll do that for me won't you?"

Vinnie nodded again, and pressed his nose harder into the hand, closing his eyes and trying not to think about just how low he had fallen now.

The Pit Boss made a gesture with his hand, and one of the guards stepped towards the throne. He turned the mouse around and detached the chain linking his wrists to his ankles.

"Stand." The Pit Boss ordered, and for the first time since he had been shackled he was pulled up onto two legs.

It felt strange, and his balance was still not fully recovered as it was. He staggered, so the guard supported him for a moment before the Pit Boss stood to hold the mouse steady in his own arms. "There we are, your first reward. Feel good, my little rat? Do you like being able to stand?"

Vinnie moaned softly into his master's broad chest, unsure that it really did feel good seeing as his legs were wobbling, his stomach doing somersaults, and his back and feet complaining at the new posture.

"Good" he stated, holding the mouse a little tighter in his grasp. "Now, let's start the test shall we?"

* * *

By the time he was returned to the straw pile in the welder's workshop Vinnie was not only reeling from his new role, but completely and utterly ashamed. More ashamed even then ever before in his life. And yet a part of him felt good. Like he had done good... in a bad way. Or done bad in a good way, he wasn't sure. He had done everything his master had asked of him, and as much as it had sickened him he couldn't help a tiny glow of pride when he had been told he had done well.

He caught Wes's eye as he lay down again, his middle chain re-attached so that he was once again on all-fours. The man gazed at him with a mixture of surprise and sadness, like he had not expected this to have happened, or perhaps did but regretted it actually doing so. Vinnie dipped his head, not wanting to see the disappointment, or horror, or whatever it was that was appropriate for what he had done that day running through the older man's mind.

This was how it was every night for the next few days. Vinnie would be dropped off in the morning to the castle, and would spend the day performing various tasks. Most were actually quite benign, relatively speaking, such as cleaning out dungeon cells, carrying things for various members of the crew, generally expressing himself in the manner of a slave. Most of the time he was kept on a leash whilst he worked, or was at least supervised. At certain times he would be called into the arena, or throne room, and then things would take up a very different pace.

Then he was expected to do things that he never, ever imagined a slave being asked to do.

But then again...

His mind drifted to Wes. Was this what the man had to do in order to prove himself worthy of his new position too? If so then not much had changed for him, he was still being asked to do these things, at least in between his other, more pride-worthy work of moulding metal. Vinnie didn't have that to look forward to. His only skills involved shooting bad guys, and racing bikes... and a bit of Martian mechanics. None of which would be required of him now.

Another week had passed. So far he had just been asked to 'assist' the guards, but now he was being ordered to go ahead and do it all himself. He held the control stick in his right hand, and looked down at the man at his feet. A slave that had been caught talking to another. Now he was to be punished, and Vinnie was expected to be the one doing it.

Fifteen lashes. It didn't sound too bad, he thought, but then he knew just what level of damage these innocuous looking rods were capable of, having felt and seen it for himself. It occurred to him that the Pit Boss had made Wes make that other stick especially for him, one much less damaging as the one he now wielded, because by the time he had finished the man was a bloodied mess, and barely conscious. His own fur was spattered with blood, and though he knew he looked like a monster right now, he turned to his master with a shy smile.

The Pit Boss returned it.

"Very good my boy, very good. Come here and let me reward you."

Vinnie was excited by this. Each time the man said it his heart leapt with joy, hoping that this would be the moment that his lips would finally be cut free. He tried not to look too disappointed when they weren't.

"Don't look so down, my dear rat, you have done well - but you still have much to prove." the man soothed him, embracing his blood-stained body and running his fingers down his back. "Now then, shall we see about getting those legs of yours free, hmm? After that you will be so much more... _flexible_."

Vinnie found himself being pushed to the floor, and he sat there as another guard came forward to release the shackles from his ankles. The mouse stared at his legs for a while, hardly able to comprehend that he could move them independently without something tugging harshly at his flesh. At his bruised, swollen, welt-ridden flesh. The cuffs had left a terrible legacy of wounds around the joints, and after a few minutes he could barely look at them without feeling sick.

Not that he had time to. The Pit Boss was kneeling beside him, guiding him gently backwards so that he lay on the stone floor, and then slowly moved to spread the white-furred legs and place himself between them.

After all this time Vinnie knew what was expected of him. He had to lie there and let it happen, and prove himself – which was exactly what the Pit Boss wanted. He allowed himself to be touched, and fondled, and exposed. He tried his best to place his mind elsewhere, even though his body was equally trying its best to make him pay attention.

It wasn't that he enjoyed it, for like Modo he found it hard to get past the revulsion he felt at such dirtied skin coming into contact with his most sensitive of areas, but there was pleasure in knowing that he was giving the man between his legs what he wanted. And that was all that mattered now.

That night he was left with his back end unchained. He was still tethered by a leash to the workshop wall, and his wrists were still cuffed. And in fact, once the guards had left him Wes barked to him to get back down on all-fours, and not to rise again until he was collected in the morning.

He obeyed. In the workshop the welder was the boss, and Vinnie had experienced firsthand just what the man was capable of doing, whether or not he actually liked it. Wes apparently wasn't taking any chances. He had too much to lose to risk leaving the mouse free to do as he pleased.

A few more days went by with the same routine. Both Vinnie and Wes came to the conclusion that the Pit Boss had ordered that there be no 'interference' during his slave's training, which translated roughly into Flint and his cronies not being allowed to visit with the sole purpose of abusing them. They didn't so much as get a knock on the door all week, except that is by whoever was sent over to collect the mouse, or to return him.

Vinnie also noticed something else. Although he could smell the scent of his tan-furred bro lingering in the arena – some times stronger and fresher than others – he never actually saw him being 'educated' by the Pit Boss. Nor did he see Modo, but then he already knew the grey mouse had been discharged from that duty.

He expected at least to see them working out in the mine. After two weeks of spending his days in the castle, he was finally rewarded for his service with a pair of trousers. No shoes yet, but at least now he felt a little more dignity being able to cover himself (except when five minutes late he was ordered to unzip and lay on his back for an inspection...), and this was really very empowering when he found himself being led out into the slave mine. By his wrists. The collar remained but now there was no leash.

Vinnie couldn't see either of his bros, which was good because he wasn't sure he was ready to face them. He certainly wasn't ready to see the look on their faces when they saw him not only alive and well, but standing upright and clothed.

And carrying a stick. Which he was expected to use. Fully.

He suspected the Pit Boss had arranged for the other mice to be elsewhere for this part of the training. The guards told him to keep close, and to keep watch. Whenever they spotted one of the slaves stumbling, or resting, or doing anything they weren't supposed to, he was to hit them.

It took him all his effort to not turn around and thrash the guards instead. He focused his mind on the reward he would get for doing as he was told. Someday soon he would be allowed his mouth back. Someday he might even be allowed his voice, but he would settle for being able to chew.

The Pit Boss had not been joking when he had told the white mouse he would only be allowed to do  _things_  when told. Vinnie had to wait, or try somehow to beg permission, to be able to do anything. Eating and drinking was one issue... going to the bathroom was quite another. One of the most awful things he had been made to do so far was use a bucket on demand, and then to 'use' that bucket on one of the other slaves. Thank goodness Wes was still giving him the anti-emetic, or he would surely have choked on his breakfast that day.

Later he was taken to the castle, and into the throne room where the Pit Boss was chatting to some of his top goons. Flint sneered at him as he was led to the foot of the giant granite seat, and as he dropped to his knees he could hear a snigger issue from the head goon's mouth.

He didn't care. The Pit Boss was positively overjoyed with his performance, it didn't matter what the goon thought of him.

Vinnie nuzzled into his master's legs and looked up, carefully, and hopefully, at the man's face. He was rewarded with a pet to his head.

"I hear you have done well today my little rat-slave. I must say I am impressed. Very impressed. I guess the carrot really does work as well as the stick, right boys?"

The room filled with laughter, and Vinnie blushed.

"Would my little rat like his reward now?"

An eager nod came from the white mouse. Was he going to finally get what he hoped for?

"I thought so. But you're going to have to wait a little longer. Can you do that for me rat? I have one more task for you, one tiny little thing and then... maybe... just maybe... I will give you what you want. Are you ready for your final test, rat?"

More nodding. At this point Vinnie didn't seem to think there was anything he wouldn't do, not now, not after what he had done so far already.

"Marvellous. Did you see that, men? The rat is going to do it! He is going to be a good little slave and give his master everything. His body, his mind... and now you're going to give me your soul, aren't you?"

Vinnie didn't know exactly what that meant, but he was so desperate for his master to pet him again, to show him the affection he was so desperately lacking, to touch him in the way he found himself now deeply desiring... he nodded, rubbing his face against the soiled trousers of the hideous henchman sitting above him.

"When I call for you, rat, you will come, and you will do what I ask, no matter how difficult. You will do it, all of it, and when you do you will be rewarded." The Pit Boss lifted Vinnie's chin with his finger, his gaze suddenly menacing. "But if you don't, rat, this all goes away. If you back out of it when the moment comes, you will spend the rest of your miserable life as an animal - a voiceless, worthless brute - and I will make sure it is the longest life of any slave to ever grace this castle."

Vinnie closed his eyes, swallowing anxiously. Anything would be better than spending the rest of his life in that cage.

* * *

The guards had returned him to the workshop, and he lay on his bedding with his mind whirring. Deep inside he knew that when the moment came he was going to be facing something truly awful, and that once again he would be facing a terrible, terrible decision. His stomach and heart fluttered with nerves. It felt like he was about to enter into some kind of exam, a test so stringent that only an A grade would see him through, and anything less would be a failure.

And failure really was not an option here.

Wes was busy, but the mouse could tell he was agitated too. He wondered if the man knew what this final test would be?

It was two days later when the call came. He hadn't been allowed out of the workshop at all in that time, and even though he had been left with his new trousers Wes had insisted he remained not only on all-fours, but leashed and tethered too. The man had no time to be keeping an eye on him, and Vinnie was left pacing the back wall of the room, waiting with a building unease as to what his fate would be.

The radio on the table suddenly came to life, and both the welder and mouse startled.

It was time.

Wes unchained the mouse's neck and pulled him to his feet, then led him towards the prison yard. He could feel Vinnie's heart thumping wildly, the surging adrenalin in his system reviving that old instinct, all but buried, of flee or fight. The mouse could do neither.

He had to face whatever it was, whatever dreadful deed he had been called for.

And there it was.

Through the thick silence he could make out the terrified sobs of one of the slaves. The man was dangling by his neck from the head goon's meaty grasp, and Vinnie knew that whatever it was he was supposed to have done it was bad, bad enough to require punishment. And that it was his task was to punish him. Severely.

But before he could even find out what that was a voice broke through to him, completely throwing him off track. It said his name, and it was begging him to stop.

There was his bro, in his cage, staring up at him in desperation and breaking one of the strictest rules to beg him to not obey his master. His bro, the one who was responsible for him being here, the one who did not stand up and fight for himself, or his friends. The one who allowed them all to be taken; the one who gave in; the one who told him he was a bad mouse for not doing the same. His bro, who abandoned him to his fate.

He was his bro no more.

Vinnie shot the tan mouse a look, one that said what his mouth could not. It said shut up,  _or else_.

Flint was ecstatic. His boss had ordered him to watch out for an opportunity to make the white mouse prove himself. He wanted to take every last bit of what he once was away, and make him his entirely. All he needed was this moment, when a slave was to be punished by death, and for that punishment to be carried out in front of the entire colony so that everyone knew that the white mouse was finally, completely broken.

Neither the head goon nor the Pit Boss could have hoped for this.

"Shut up, rat, or you'll be next." Flint growled, and handed over the control stick to the standing mouse, throwing the sobbing human slave to the floor. He looked around at the watching faces, human and mouse, and spoke out loudly to them all. "He wants his freedom? He will get it!"

To Vinnie he said "Finish him."

And he did.


	34. Help me

_...Receiving_

_Command processed._

_Data download in progress..._

* * *

The plush material of his chair was a fine change from the standard hard plastics and metal of those featured elsewhere on his ship. But then his was special, sited in the centre of the bridge deck and elevated so that its occupant could get a good view of everything around him. This was the captain's chair after all, and he no ordinary captain.

He lounged back into the squishy seat and allowed his eyes to close briefly, and his mind to view images of what was, and what could be. There were plenty of them, too. He was getting on in years, very much so, and to reach fifty was quite unusual considering the nature of his work on top of his rapidly ticking biological clock. However this countdown was not an obvious feature for anyone of his species, and his fur-covered body was still much like it was in his youth. Grey was the normal colour of their pelts, varying in tone and lightness; with dapples of other shades mingling in, the hue largely depending on their bloodline. His were blue, as were his eyes. He looked otherwise quite mouse-like, with large-lobed ears and a short muzzle; but his tail was shorter and thicker, and not prehensile, and of course not being Martian he did not have those red antennae.

The soft seat lulled his aged body into a light sleep, and the dreams of the past played out behind his eyes, flickering between bright and vivid pictures to those dark, gloomy and obscured ones, the ones only his unconscious mind ever allowed to surface. His waking thoughts had all but buried those.

Captain Metis had been running his trade ship for the last ten years. That's also how long it had been since he had been home. He had meant to return to his birthplace much, much sooner, but with the way things had turned out it looked like it was going to be a while longer still. He often wondered if there was even a home to return to after all this time.

Yet despite the deep yearning to place his feet back on firm soil, on familiar ground rather than those cess pits and bleak rocks he frequently did business with throughout the galaxy, his life wasn't all that bad. He had his ship, a loyal crew, good trade partners (and a few bad ones, but there were ways of dealing with those) and an income of sorts. Enough to keep him going, at least until the winds turned again and sent him either homewards, or onward to the afterlife.

After a long life in limbo, he didn't really mind much which way they took him.

His body relaxed further and his head leaned to one side, his right ear drooping down over his shoulder, and his mouth loosening, the slack allowing just a little bit of saliva onto his shirt.

The crew wouldn't disturb him, not unless it was important. He was the captain, and a man of many years, and quite deserved a little nap from time to time. He had definitely earned it.

Today though he was not getting long to meander his way through his memories nor frolic in his fantasies. Today he had fallen asleep at his station, and in front of him a red light was blinking.

The soft accompanying beep alerted the co-pilot seated at the control panel nearby, and after a moment to process the unexpectedness of the alert, he stood to go and rouse the captain.

With a snort and a sniffle Metis came to, slightly dazed and a little annoyed that he had been shaken from one of his best dreams yet. He had been home, with his family, in the garden that once was, in the country that had been, on the planet that used to be  _so beautiful_. The Plutarkians had made short work of the paradise he had known long ago. But still, maybe enough time had passed now, maybe if he stepped onto the golden plains they would not be blackened and burned but alive and shimmering once more...

He sighed. Being dragged back to reality sometimes really sucked.

"Captain?" The co-pilot squeezed his shoulder gently, waiting for the Metis to come fully round and open his eyes.

"What is it? Better be something good. Something really good..." he grumbled, knowing full well that it would be important.

Metis rubbed his face to free the gunk from his eyes, his cleared gaze then following the pointing finger of his crew member. Below the flashing light there was a small screen, and the words that had appeared on it made him crumple his nose in muted surprise.

_A long-range transmission? Who would be sending out one of those?_

He only had to glance at the originator's ID for him to know the answer, for it was barely even two weeks ago he had last seen it appear on his screen. Only the last time the message had been the usual encoded banter, personal digs on the lines of not yet being too old to remember where to go when he stopped over to trade with that hidden base.

But not this time.

"Change of plans, pilot." He announced loudly, now fully alert. It had taken a moment for him to comprehend the meaning of the transmission, but in that same instance he also knew that it was urgent.

* * *

There was definitely something different. Something she couldn't quite place her finger on, not right away, but she sensed it nonetheless. She could only hope they hadn't noticed her excitement this time, her thinly veiled eagerness to resume her position on that table, and wait for her conscious thoughts to melt away and resurface again, reborn in another mind many, many miles away...

She had noted a similar enthusiasm in the Plutarkian guards as they deposited her with the mute alien and his machines. That strange pale face, however, remained as impassive as ever. It hooked her up to all the probes and wires as was normal, and as before she felt the sharp sensations of the machine being turned on, and saw that tiny light in the mask before it, and her vision, were completely extinguished.

When she opened her eyes again, what she saw surprised her.

_There was definitely something different. Not just something. Someone. She was different. Her clothes felt different. Kind of rougher, stiffer, brushing more harshly against her skin than she remembered. They smelt stronger too, the fabric... no not just the fabric. The air. The air smelt heavy, yet crisp, yet stifling, everything that could describe it together all at once. Her ears could detect the faint whine of the air flow unit, not its usual background hum; and footsteps nearby; and voices. Voices not nearby, but farther away. Perhaps carried along those same ducts connecting the room she was in to many, if not all, of the others._

_Amongst this sensory explosion of texture, smell and sound came something else, something deeper inside, something nudging at the darkest corner of her mind..._

_No. **No**._

_Her ears pricked up. This time the voice was clear, and external, and familiar, and she felt strangely drawn to it – though she did not know why. Her hand reached out and grasped the handle of the door in front of her. It felt cool, smooth; polished by years of being touched, and held, and moved._

_The next handle equally felt well-used, and familiar. The heavy door pulled towards her, and her nose was hit again by a fresh load of heady scents, all familiar and yet so much clearer than she ever remembered._

_She was so overwhelmed for a moment by this change that she almost didn't noticed the faces that had turned when she entered; the looks of surprise, concern, even distaste from a few. One at least seemed pleased, though oddly the feeling was not mutual._

_There was another door handle, and another room bursting with the aroma of recent activity, slowly fading but still thick enough for her to know that room had only recently been emptied._

_There was so much scent, so much noise, so much sensation it felt like she was drowning; the muffled roar of everything smothering her from all sides, pressing onto, into, and all around her, falling, fading..._

"Kalis?"

_A hand reached in and pulled her out, and she took a deep breath as if it were her first for a very long time. Everything refocused. Retuned. Ready._

_She moved on. There was so much going on around her now, so much excitement, she could feel it, and hear it, inside and out. The only thing that seemed off was... she couldn't put her finger on that either. There was something else, something that she couldn't see quite so clearly._

_So much sound, so much smell, so much touch. So many people touching..._

_Have to get away._

_Have to be somewhere._

_Somewhere else._

_Doing something else._

_Radio. Get the radio._

_Get away. Get the radio_.

"Kalis?"

_The fog lifted again._

_But now, now it was different. She was watching herself on a screen, or from above, or from the side; from the far side of the room where she could no longer feel, nor smell, nor hear. Just a picture, a very clear picture._

_The faces looked happy. There was smiling, and wide eyes that creased and crinkled in response to the joy and relief and amusement they were all sharing. All but her. She couldn't remember why, but she knew there was something she was meant to be happy about. But all she could do was watch from afar somehow._

_Then all went dark. Then in the darkness there were voices._

_Then those voices came into the light, and with those voices came faces._

_Familiar faces. Terrible faces._

_Faces that loomed beside and above her, pointed teeth protruding from ever-widening mouths._

_And there was that other face, and it came closer, and closer, and as the pain swept through her those pointed teeth in those widening mouths of those terrible, familiar faces - she saw them coated in red, and the laughter rang in her ears, and she was screaming._

_And then it was gone, she was in the darkness once more and there was only one voice, one face, one feeling. Soothing, comforting, safe once more._

_She relaxed. She felt him move away. She slept._

_But there was something else. Something different. Something she had to say, something she had to tell him..._

_Wait! Come back!_

_Too late. She slept._

_She woke._

_There was definitely something different. Something just beyond her reach, something she knew, yet didn't._

_She had to find out what it was. It was important. She knew that at least, if that was all she knew._

_But what? And where could she find it? She had to find it; she had to find it fast._

_Where to start? Archives. Why archives? She didn't know, but it was as good a place to start as any._

_She thought she was looking at random, and perhaps at first she was. But each time she entered that room she found herself drawn again and again to the same paper files, to the same logs and mission reports as before. They were all familiar to her, though some for better reasons than others._

_But there was something else she had to look for, something else she had to do. And someone was getting in her way._

_She had to get away._

_She had to be somewhere._

_Somewhere else, doing something._

_Alone._

_She needed a radio._

_She needed a radio to contact someone._

"Kalis?"

_The fog lifted. The clarity returned. But something still wasn't clear. Something still wasn't right. Something was different, and she didn't yet know what. All she knew was she had to find the answer, somewhere, and fast. And that she needed a radio. And that he was trying to stop her._

_She had to get away, she had to be somewhere, doing something._

_She was running now, for she was running out of time._

_She had to hurry. She had to tell them._

_She found it! She knew what she had to tell them._

_Have to send them a message._

_But he was trying to stop her. She didn't know why but she didn't want him to stop her._

_There was so much scent, so much touch, so much familiarity. What if she never had the chance again? What if this was it?_

_He smelt so good. He felt so good, so soft, so gentle. His scent, his touch. His voice, his words..._

"Kalis?"

_The fog lifted. The darkness returned._

_They were standing over her again. Those terrible faces. Those mouths filled with pointed teeth, they were moving. Laughing. Telling her something that she couldn't hear, giving her a message she couldn't understand. Then that other face was there, and the pain returned, and she screamed._

_And he was holding her once more, safe and sound like always._

_Only there was something different. Something that had been out of reach; something she had known but couldn't understand; something she had to find the answer to. Something she had to tell him. Tell them._

_She opened her eyes, and at last she could see clearly now._

But it was too late.

There was a message she had to send, and had sent. There was a message she wanted to send, and was about to deliver. There was a message she desperately needed to send, but she had failed.

She wept.

"I'm so sorry" she whispered.

"You tried" she replied.

"We both did."

"We failed."

"It's too late"

"It's not too late"

There was something different. She couldn't feel it anymore. The voices dimmed, the smells faded, the touch barely lingered. There was only one thing left as the murky haze returned, and that one last thing stood out clearly in her mind. One last message.

_Help me._


	35. Wake up

The rising star on the horizon brought an end to the cool, purple dawn, and cast long, orange fingers of light across the early sky, which then grasping at the space beyond the steel bars of the island prison, slowly felt their way across his face and behind the curtains of his eyes. He woke.

It took Limburger a few minutes to focus. He had lain up half the night trying to remember details of a long forgotten past, fretting about an equally unforgettable present, and immediate future. Charley had still not been returned to her cell either, and he couldn't help but think that it had something to do with what he had overheard at the clinic.

That thought continued to nag at him throughout the day, and he fought out an internal battle to try and remember the details of the early projects involving mind-linking. But it was before the days when Plutark had finally ventured into the virgin territory that was Earth, and before they had known anything significant about human anatomy. He had no idea at all how they could have applied such technology to a relatively close-minded species; even for the telepathic Martians it was still in its infancy.

Limburger could only surmise that scientists had been working on the problem behind closed doors for many years now, and that some sort of breakthrough had been made. And that that involved some type of  _product_  that apparently required some rather clandestine, perhaps even unethical (by the somewhat low Plutarkian standards) dealings with the fertility clinic.

It was far too much of a coincidence that he should have overheard that hushed conversation between the clinician and what was probably one of the prison guards, and the continued absence of the human female. Charley hadn't shown up at all the day after she had been taken, nor the next, and the next, and so on for over an entire week. The puzzled Plutarkian would have paced his cell with distracted worry if he himself hadn't been so heavily laden with something else.

All he could do was wait, and think, and  _eat_. And oh yes did he eat. Without Charley there to encourage him, the guards were left in charge of assuring Limburger did not get lax on his duties as official brooder to their High Chairman's progeny. They were far less accommodating to his pains as she, and their impatience showed. They knew just how far they could go in hurrying up the process of consuming such a large menu each day, though it was largely the threat of having everything pumped in via tube that was most effective. Limburger was undoubtedly weak-willed when it came to torture, but having already experienced one of the most painful things that they could do to him, somehow nothing else really compared now. Except, that is, the feeling of his insides being crushed from within.

After each meal, when the pain became too much, he would retire to his bunk and try to block out the dismal world he now existed in, and place his wandering thoughts elsewhere.

By the tenth day of staring at the empty cell beside his bunk he was starting to lose hope. The questions bumped around and around in his head, making it ache with the effort of trying to make sense of what the answers might be to them.

Had Charley succeeded in sending out her message, or managed to persuade the mouse General to call for help herself? Was there a rescue mission on its way?  _Why haven't they brought her back?_

He didn't want to think of what might have gone wrong, but the longer that cell next door stood empty the harder it became to ignore that alternative. Alternatives. It was possible she had gotten out the SOS one way or another, and had been discovered doing so, in which case she was might never be coming back. It was possible her mind had been so deeply immersed in the other that they couldn't pull it out again. Having seen the after-effects of each session to date, that one was quite probable no matter what else had happened. Or the Plutarkian scientists, or military, or whoever it was in charge of the project now, had finally got what they were after. Maybe they no longer needed Charley, or maybe now they needed her more than ever.

He pondered the latter. It would be very useful for them to have someone they were able to link, at will, to the mind of the head of the resistance in their space. Mind control had been one of those tools most sought after by his kind, since simply relying on fear and oppression to manage their subjects had been hit and miss at best. If whatever it was that had been obtained from the clinic had been the key to establishing full control over the linking process, and thus control over both parties involved, then this would be a monumental advance in the Plutarkian ambition to take over the cosmos.

Limburger shuddered. For some reason the thought of his kind ruling across the galaxies no longer filled him with the same hungry desire as it once did. If anything he felt distinctly unwell by the prospect, though that could just be because of the massive quantity of food stuffs he was having to consume.

That night he was restless. It was looking more and more like things had not gone as the human woman, and himself, had hoped. As it was getting harder for him to walk around, eventually he had to resign himself to his bunk, fidgeting with the tight fabric of his faded purple suit that was now stretched quite tightly over his enormous, growing frame.

The prison was quiet. Very quiet. He wasn't used to such an emptiness of sound and it bothered him. The guard wasn't much use for company, and if anything they had been quite irritable with him the last few days. It wasn't worth annoying this one; he was too tired of trying to anyway.

Then, somewhere down the corridor behind the cell block door there were muffled voices. Limburger wasn't exactly trying to listen, but the speakers must have been getting closer because soon he was finding it difficult not to eavesdrop a little. Especially when he heard words like 'success' and 'human' trickling through to him. He may not have heard the entire conversation but those two words were very suggestive. However it was hard work straining his ears to try and pick up anything else that might tell him what was going on, and finally he gave up and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

The next morning he sat up suddenly and threw an eager glance between the dividing bars by his bunk; the remnants of images and words, and hushed echoes of a conversation were so vivid he was half expecting to see his neighbour had returned. Alas, the adjoining cell was still empty.  _It was just a dream_ , he decided, and rolled over dismissively to catch a few more minutes rest before his marathon munch began again.

The day passed like those in the previous week. Food was delivered, and he ate. The guards kept watch, and every now and again gruffly ordered him to keep going. At shift change there was whispered dialogue between them. It wasn't unusual, but some instinct told him that perhaps not everything from the previous night had been a figment of the desperate desires of his unconscious, and so this time Limburger was paying close attention.

The fish just about manage to catch a few snippets of those hushed words; one guard was complaining that he had been stuck here waiting for far too long, that he was relieved it would all be over soon, and when it was he was getting transferred off the planet as soon as possible. The second was much more excited. He was saying he hoped they broadcast it live. For a moment Limburger assumed they were talking about him, and his impending second round of public humiliation. But then the third guard joined in the chatter. He commented, rather derisively, that he couldn't wait to be rid of 'that freak in the basement', and he hoped the scientific council recognised his significant input into getting them to this point.

At that last part Limburger knew this wasn't about him, and that he had heard that third guard's voice before, elsewhere. And now he was more than certain that something else had happened, something decidedly in the Plutarkian empire's favour.

If he had guessed rightly, he could only hope that Charley had either warned her mind's host of the incoming peril, and somehow found a way to save them. The resistance, and the two of them.

A loud bang on his cell's barred door reminded him he was meant to be eating, and he sadly lifted his fork-like utensil to his mouth once more.

_Please let her have sent that message._

He wondered if he would ever get the chance to ask her. If he would ever even see her again. If he would ever find out what really happened to her in that other mind...

Another loud bang shook him from his thoughts. This time it was the door to the cell block, and two more guards were coming in, pleased anticipation apparent on their green-scaled faces.

And there she was. They carried her limp human form into the cell next door and deposited it roughly on the bunk. After locking the barred metal door behind them they stopped to talk to the other three guards.

"Couple more days and we'll have it." One of the guards who had brought Charley back commented off-handed to those stationed to watch duty in the cell block.

"What about her?" replied the one who was waiting to be transferred elsewhere.

"Oh don't you worry. I'm sure they will dispose of her once they have the rest of them."

"And him? I'm about done with babysitting that fat failure."

The transfer guards sniggered, and glanced over at the listening form of Limburger, who cringed backwards looking horrified by their cold-hearted conversation. Raising his voice so that the purple-suited Plutarkian would be in no doubt as to what his fate would be, the guard answered. "High Chairman wants to keep him around a while longer" he began, and sensing that that was not the only thing worrying the woeful prisoner, he added nastily "he better get used to being alone, he will be keeping himself company for a long time yet."

And with another bout of cruel laughter the transfer guards left, leaving the three remaining on duty to argue quietly amongst themselves about who was getting off the island first. After a few minutes they settled down back into their routines, which at this time in the day meant another load of dishes for their prisoner to consume.

Distracted by what he had just heard, and by the unmoving, pale woman lying next door, Limburger was in no mood to eat. All he could think of was that soon she would be taken away, and that any hope he might have had of getting free would be gone forever. There was no way any Martian-led resistance would rescue him, not without the human woman there to be his advocate.

He didn't even turn his head when the trolley was wheeled in, or when the guard snapped at him to get started. He continued to stare through the bars, gazing longingly at the other bunk, desperate to know if there was any chance they would make it out of here alive.

Eventually he couldn't take it anymore. He had to know. He had to wake her.

"Charley?" he whispered, when the guards had resumed their posts. There was always one in the block, and the other two had gone to do rounds elsewhere after delivering the evening meals. He didn't look up, so Limburger ventured further.

"Charley?" his voice was cracked, his throat and mouth dry from anxiety. And though it had only been a week or so since he last spoke, he almost didn't recognise his deep, almost nasal tones. He still carried a trace of the Chicago lilt, which was rapidly waning in favour of the rasp of that gill-breathing Plutarkian accent.

She hadn't stirred.  _She might never wake_.

He grew impatient. He shouted louder.

"CHARLEY!? CHARLEY WAKE UP! PLEASE WAKE UP!"

Limburger sobbed as he yelled over and over for the Earth women to awaken, but she remained unmoving, and unresponsive. He was so caught up in his frantic attempts to get through to her he didn't notice the door of his cell flying open.

The guard left on watch duty had had enough. It was bad enough listening to the self pity-filled ramblings of that useless idiot when he was alone, or to the strange dialogue when both of his charges were awake, but this last week had really pushed his patience to the limit. He viewed Limburger as something akin to a petulant child, and if anything having to oversee his eating plan made that all the worse. And now the fish was crying and shouting the place down like a toddler having a tantrum, something which irritated him more than anything else.

He had radioed the two guards on rounds, and now the three of them stood in the cell behind the unaware Limburger. One loud throat clearing got his attention.

* * *

It was in the early hours that Charley finally came around. The drugs used on her to create the mind link had been powerful, and they had been employed continuously to ensure she remained connected to the Martian General for as long as possible. After that they had pulled her out, and the absence of the IV to deliver the drug finally allowed her body to metabolise it, which as usual took several hours and gave the same, inevitable reaction upon waking.

When she finally was able to lift her head from the bowl and open her eyes without wanting to empty her guts, she took in her surroundings through her blood-shot, heavily-watering eyes.

She was back in her cell. It was late. She had no idea how long she had been gone, but she had a vague idea it had been more than just one day. There was someone who could tell her, though that could wait she thought.  _I'll ask him tomorrow._

But there was something else pressing on her mind, something important, something she had to tell him right now...  _What is it?_

Finally it came back to her, hard, and Charley staggered to her feet and to the bars between her cell and the next, much like she had done that other terrible day when he had been taken away...

_Oh no._

She remembered; they had done it to him again.

Looking through the bars now Charley knew things were bad. From the size of the belly protruding from his abdomen she knew she had been gone for quite a while. In fact it looked almost like she had been gone for a very long while, but then she was no expert. She knew they had fattened him up greatly before this round of brooding, so it was hard to make a comparison to last time.

The light in the cell was dim, and it took her a while to fully focus on the figure lying on the mattress, which was now on the floor. Something else looked odd about him.  _What have they done?_

Charley gasped. Limburger stirred.

"Ch..Charley? Is that you?" His voice carried weakly to her ears, and she knew he was in horrendous pain.

"It's me, d..don't get up.. i'm... i'm ok..." She was finding it hard to speak now, she was so upset.  _"I'm so sorry"_  she whispered,  _"I'm so sorry..."_

In their irritation the guards had punished Limburger for making so much noise when he was meant to be eating. A thrashing was out of the question, so they had done the next best, or worst, thing. Limburger was now restrained, and his bunk's meagre bedding moved so that they could leave him on the floor. And into his stomach they had cut a small hole, and through that secured inside it a long tube. With his belly now filled to the brim, the guards were able to continue their shift in relative peace, the threat of extra food more or less silencing their unruly charge.

Limburger grunted in agony as he tried to shift to get a better view of the ashen-faced woman. Even in the darkness she looked terrible. Haunted even. Like someone who had witnessed something truly awful. He knew exactly what that was, and it wasn't just what she was seeing now.

"They... they're not coming... are they?" he breathed.

Charley shook her head, her tears dripping silently from her face to the filthy floor on which she crouched. She reached for him, but he was too far.

"Then... then it's too late... for me. You have to... get... out of here... save.. yourself..."

He debated for a moment if he should tell her what the guards had said. He decided against it. He didn't want her to panic, but he didn't want her to waste her time either.

"No matter... what happens... if you see... a chance... g-go... don't look back. Don't..."

_Don't wait for me. I'm doomed._

Limburger sighed with fatigue, and Charley looked across at him forlornly. She understood what he had just said, and it made her feel even worse. Not only had she failed to secure them a means of being rescued, she had ensured that there was no one out there now who would ever be able to help them. Through her eyes the Plutarkian side had been able to get exactly what they needed to gain a tactical advantage, and she hadn't been able to stop them. They had kept her in long enough to ensure their success. And she had seen enough to know that they had had it.


	36. Altered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vinnie isn't himself any more... *Warning: contains strong language, and scenes of gore, violence and sexual abuse*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note to say this one took me seven rewrites and I still wasn't that happy with it. It was a difficult one to write, containing scenes of abuse that some might find upsetting.

" _Nooo, Vinnie!"_

He let out a small sob as he watched. Eventually the man stopped moving, having lain twitching for a few moments before that final sigh of life escaped him. The blood-spattered white mouse still stood over his body, panting heavily through his nose from the effort - physical and emotional. From his cage Throttle had observed the terrible transformation in his younger bro with dismayed horror. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have taken a life, a second life, an innocent one?  _What has the Pit Boss done to him?_

Pause. Everyone was staring at the scene, an image captured forever in that brief moment of near photographic stillness. Most of the other slaves looked shocked, and fearfully so. They had just witnessed the most lowly of their ranks rise up to take his place above them, somehow; that figure from only weeks ago now altered from terrified, to terrifying.

The watching members of the pit crew were also surprised, though for other reasons. Some certainly hadn't expected him to obey such a gruesome order as this. Had it not been so astonishing they might have cheered, for some reason it just wasn't the time for celebration. At least one of them was pleased, however; the head goon could barely contain the grin on his face, and so by contrast looked decidedly smug.

There were two other pairs of eyes fixated on the bloody aftermath of the execution. One of those was staring as if recently awakened from a long sleep, only to find that everything had changed in his absence. Modo's mouth was opening and closing, mute, like he was trying to find words that wouldn't come, couldn't come even. What could he say, even if allowed to voice an opinion? That one of his best friends had turned into a monster? He was utterly bewildered.  _It's just not possible, it's not Vinnie. That's not Vinnie; my bro wouldn't do that. That's not my bro._

The second of those two other watchers showed only one thing on his face: an unmistakeable look of revulsion. He had spent the last month nurturing a murderer, so that feeling wasn't just directed at the subject of this nightmare in front of him. The tan mouse glanced up and could see that Wes was not impressed with what had just happened, and clearly was wishing he could be somewhere else right now - certainly anywhere but here.

End pause. Flint stepped forward and yanked the bloodied stick from Vinnie's hand, making no effort to avoid kicking the dead slave as he did so. "Alright, enough. Let that be a warning to the rest of you." He glared threateningly at the rows of frightened prisoners still peering down from the front of their tiny cells, who then retreated hastily within to avoid being the next to face the head goon's wrath. He then turned to Wes and pointed the stick towards the white mouse. "Get him cleaned up, boss is going to want to see him."

The welder nodded and took Vinnie by his shoulders, gently coaxing him away from the corpse at his feet and back towards his workshop home. Now that the adrenalin was waning the mouse was quite compliant, and in something of a daze himself. He allowed the man to lead him away without any resistance, which was a relief to Wes who almost thought his charge might suddenly turn on him too.

Once the mouse and welder were out of sight, Flint gave a wave of his hand and two of the crew moved in to drag the lifeless man's body away. Throttle was still watching everything through the bars of his enclosure. He couldn't help but wonder about the dead slave, and where they would take his body, or indeed any of their bodies. What happened to those who finally fell for the last time?

He didn't have very long to think about it though because something, or rather someone, was demanding his attention.

"Don't think you're getting away with that little outburst of yours. Pit Boss is going to want to see you too, and somehow I think he ain't going to be too upset about it." Flint sneered nastily down at him, signalling again to his waiting crew.

Throttle threw one last glance behind him as he was dragged away. At the congealing blood in the dirt, the stain broken where they had dragged its owner away; and at the few remaining watchers, still gazing with eyes wide. At his older bro, still gaping in shock and confusion, flicking his single ruby-red eye between where he had last seen his two friends, and where each of them were now heading.  And in the distance at that small dwelling, a tiny glow of light indicating that its occupants had returned once more, back into its inviting warmth and not to where he himself was heading right now.

If anything, having seen what he just had, and guessing what was coming next, the castle had never looked more foreboding.

* * *

_For fuck's sake get a grip. Get a grip Wes, there was nothing you could do. It was going to happen, you knew it was, it was just a matter of when. Not if, when._

_When. Now. Oh fuck. Why did it have to happen now, on my fucking watch?_

Wes was pacing. He felt angry, at himself, at the mouse, Flint, the Pit Boss, the world. Everything, it seemed, had conspired to bring about this day, and try as he may there was no way to avoid it. Now it had happened he simply had to deal with it.

With him.

The first thing he had done when he entered his building was to shove the mouse to the floor and chain him to the wall. He wasn't taking any risks; he had no idea how his charge would react once what he had done really sunk in. He knew it hadn't yet, but again that too was only a matter of time.

There wasn't long enough to run a bath, so he filled a bucket of warm water from the boiler in his sitting room, and grabbed a cloth so that he could clean up the mouse's dirtied white fur. He had done this on several nights in the last couple of weeks, yet each time felt less and less compassion. He knew that was wrong, for it wasn't the mouse's fault, but he could see what was going on and it scared him. It reminded him of another time when this had happened. It reminded him of himself.

He didn't want to see the mouse slave become someone like him. There was no shame in obeying orders, he had decided, but there was shame in enjoying doing so. Especially orders like  _that_.

Wes knew that even if the mouse didn't enjoy what he had just done, he would enjoy the reward for having done it. The sad thing was, he highly doubted that the Pit Boss would give him what he really wanted, at least not yet, not until he had taken even more than his slave would be willing to give otherwise. But it wouldn't matter. The mouse would be so desperate for any reward that however small it would bring some pleasure, and soon he would do anything for that limited and so precious of feelings.

Vinnie didn't move at all whilst he was washed, and kept his eyes low, not daring to meet those of the older man. When he was clean again Wes stepped back, contemplative. He was considering what could be done, what chance there was left of preventing history repeating itself.

He sighed. There simply wasn't enough time. There was never enough time in this place. In a few minutes he would be summoned to take the mouse to the castle, and if he presumed correctly then he was probably far too late to alter the course of events that would follow.

Vinnie swished his tail. He could sense that his carer, now his handler, was waiting. They were both waiting.

Decision made, Wes suddenly bent down and grabbed hold of the base of the little white snout, and lifted it so that the mouse's gaze connected with his own.

For a few seconds they stared at each other. Vinnie swallowed, wondering what the man was going to do. He looked so...  _determined_... it made him think of that day when he had held above him that shining metal rod, the same emotions dancing around inside those dark windows into the unfathomable man's mind. He was hard to read. He was always hard to read: no doubt a tool for surviving down here, the mouse supposed.

Wes spoke, his deep voice equally indecipherable.

"Whatever happens, don't forget who you are."

He released his chin, and Vinnie could feel the lingering pressure of where those strong fingers had gripped him. An iron grip, from an iron-willed, iron-moulding man. A slave like him, now something more.

That's who he was now, Vinnie thought to himself. Something  _more_.

* * *

The cell was cold, and dark, the stone sides impenetrable and closing around him in a near suffocating manner. He could feel those rock-built walls against his skin, so close they were touching him from all sides except one. The one side where the heavy wooden door stood sentry, controlling any access to within.

He was alone in that dingy dungeon room, but he knew he wasn't on his own. This was where they kept them, he thought, those others as tormented as he. Used as he was, abused as he was. He could hear them, their cries. Their suffering. He had joined them at last; they were equals now.

The walls were so close. He was afraid. He wasn't used to this, those solid walls. So long it had been in that cage, its bars no barrier to anything but he, or the mine, endless and un-walled, that this cell felt so, so small. Too small.

Too dark. He couldn't see. Now no one could see him. Behind closed doors he lay, unseen. Hidden for now, or forever, he didn't know.

It was cold, and dark, and he was alone, and all he could do was cry himself to sleep.

* * *

"Everything went as planned boss. He didn't even take a breath, just laid into him like you said he would. Even that other rat couldn't stop him."

There was quite a crowd now in the throne room. Flint was animatedly relaying the events of the evening, backed up by the various grunts of affirmation, and nodding heads of his crew. He seemed so impressed he probably could have carried on speaking for quite some time, but he was stopped short once the important details had been relayed.

The Pit Boss sat back on his granite seat, and pressing his stubby fingers to his chin looked thoughtfully at the other man. It was a good job that he was giving him news of a success, otherwise he might have been inclined to think his subordinate had doubted him. And that would not have pleased him one bit.

But he was feeling generous tonight; his slave whom he had been carefully crafting for so long had almost become what he intended, his masterpiece nearly complete. There was still some work to do to finish his creation, though, and the means to do so had practically handed itself over to him. Things were working out even better than he had hoped.

"Excellent, excellent. Save the other for now, I have plans for him. Have Wes bring my new  _pet_  to the castle as soon as possible. He will be expecting his reward for being such a good boy tonight."

The goons sniggered, and Flint's face gave away just how much he too was looking forward to this. He knew the Pit Boss wasn't going to give the mouse the kind of 'treat' that he was waiting for.

"Just curious boss. Now that you have him..."

"You want to know what i'm going to do with him?" The Pit Boss finished. "I don't know boys, do you think I should give him a job like I did the last one?" Their leader addressed the room, which responded in a cacophony of undecided fervour. He smiled.  _Guess it depends on what the job is_.

"If you're worried that he is going to be installed out in the general populous, don't. One free slave is enough for you to manage I think."

If Flint had picked up on the implication he didn't show it. He merely grinned before he radioed through to Wes, and then began a short discussion with a couple of the crew on matters beyond those concerning the prison. The room slowly fell silent.

They waited. It wasn't long before the welder and his charge appeared. Wes was leading the mouse by his wrists, which were still chained, and looked quite nervous about the whole situation. For the first time in a long while he wasn't too sure what he was meant to do. What was his role to be now?

"Thank you Wes, you have done well. Very well." He kept his eyes down as the Pit Boss spoke to him, not daring to let his master see how he troubled felt right now. He was about to ask if there would be anything else when abruptly the man dismissed him.

"Attend to your duties, i'm sure you have plenty of catching up to do." The Pit Boss said with a curt flick of his wrist.

Wes cringed a little. There was a threat in that statement, no doubt about it. He turned to leave and exited quickly, realising now just how much he was afraid of the tyrant sitting on the rock-made throne.

Once he had gone Vinnie sank to his knees before that throne, and the Pit Boss leant forward to stroke him on his head. He could feel the grubby palms brushing against his antennae, and what once would have made his stomach churn in repulsion now only made him press back into the touch. He needed to feel it, he needed to know that he had done well.

Smiling again, the Pit Boss reached further to take hold of the iron collar and pull his slave up and onto his own knees. He embraced Vinnie like a child, and continued to caress his face with his free hand, the other hugging him into his extensive gut.

Vinnie nuzzled back into the hand and moaned softly. He wanted more; he had been conditioned to want more.

The pit crew were observing silently from the edge of the room, and their breaths caught as they watched their boss adjust his grip on the mouse slave and begin to stroke him lower down. Several of them smirked as they saw how the Pit Boss had him right where he wanted him, and that he was responding  _exactly_  how he desired.

Vinnie moaned again. He had opened his legs as wide as his clothing, and his positioning, would allow, and was pushing back into every touch. Inside he had no idea what he was doing, just that he knew this was right. This was what his master wanted. This was what he wanted. He wanted to please his master.

"Yes... there's a good boy..." The Pit Boss murmured, amused by his slave's willingness to let him fondle him. "Such a good boy... Did good work for your master today, didn't you?"

Vinnie nodded, and pressed his face into the filthy shirt beside him. For some reason his master's foul odour no longer really bothered him.

"Good work deserves a prize.  Does my little pet want his reward now?"

His mind lost elsewhere Vinnie only noticed the one word, the one he wanted to hear. He opened his eyes. This was it! His heart lifted; finally, he would be rewarded. Vinnie nodded, a little squeak of excitement sounding softly in his throat.

The noise drew a laugh from the Pit Boss, and subsequently from the onlookers around the room. Flint in particular looked positively delighted.

"Isn't that sweet - the little rat wants his treat."

More laughter.

Oblivious to the knowing looks the pit crew were giving each other, Vinnie continued pressing his face into the Pit Boss's chest, making tiny noises in his throat, and doing what he could to beg his master to give him his long-awaited reward.

Then the hand was no longer between his legs. He looked up hoping that it would be holding a pair of scissors, or anything sharp enough to cut the threads from his bound mouth. But it wasn't. Disappointed, he gazed up at his master questioningly. He realised just how on edge he felt right now. Needy, even.

Noticing that his slave was searching him for his release, of either kind, the Pit Boss shook his head. "Oh no, that's for later, little rat. For when you have  _really_  pleased your master. I'll tell you what though, I can give you the chance to do so as your reward for today. How would you like that?"

Again Vinnie only heard the one word. It consumed him now, the need, and he barely even registered that he wasn't sitting on his master's lap anymore. He was being led away from the throne room by the man, his huge arm draped over him, keeping him close. He hardly noticed the muffled giggles behind them as they exited, nor did he fully comprehend that he wasn't being taken to the arena, nor the dungeons, nor even out of the castle. Not until it was too late.

He was being guided somewhere else, and though he didn't know where at first it slowly dawned on him that this was somewhere few others, slave or goon, had ever actually set foot.

The Pit Boss's personal quarters.

* * *

There was a tingling sensation. He thought that was what had woken him, but it was very slight the sensation. His antennae had buzzed like this before, many times, though previously only in very specific circumstances. Why it was happening now was puzzling, there was so much distress around him that he could hardly imagine why any one thing now would affect him more than the rest. And from his lightless prison he could see nothing anyway. Do nothing. Just lie there and listen, and wait.

It tingled again. Throttle tried to ignore it. There was no point in expending any energy on worrying, there was little he could do to help himself, let alone anyone else. Let alone them.

His two bros. They had drifted so far apart it was quite something he could feel anything anymore. Perhaps it was just a residual feeling, lingering in his system. It's probably Modo, he thought, _he's worried about me. He saw them take me._

Throttle hoped his older friend hadn't done the same stupid thing as he had, because that really wouldn't help any of them. He recognised that now. They were beyond help, nothing was going to change. It was pointless even trying.

His ears twitched, his body alert. From somewhere beyond his cell door came a howling cry. He sagged. No doubt there would be many more times that awful sound of fear and pain would rouse him. How long until it was him wretchedly stirring the others from their meagre, restless sleep?

Another tingle, another cry. But he was too tired now to pay heed. He was so very tired.

* * *

_Shush now, do as your master wants._

Into the soiled sheets he pressed his sodden face, unwilling to take in what was around him, and at what was happening around him. Happening to him.

His body sank into the mattress, it hard and unforgiving on his aching body, his sores and wounds not cushioned by it as the hulking mass bore down on him. His hands were pinned under his torso, the cruel metal of the shackles pinching his wasted wrists and into his bony chest. He groaned. It hurt. It  _burned_. His fingers gripped worn material, as tightly as his muted jaw was clenched. He would have bitten down on the bedding too, had his mouth been free, but it wasn't and it took him most his concentration not to unwittingly bite his own tongue off instead.

His master hadn't wasted any time once in the room. Vinnie had barely got a glimpse of where the man spent his private time before he was stripped and bent over the large double bed, but he did see a fireplace that was already lit and burning well, taking the edge off the cold in the draughty, stone-walled dorm. He briefly wondered who had tended the fire; was it one of the crew, or another slave?

Briefly. It was time to move. No words were needed to tell him what it was expected of him now, and the moment he felt the hand on the base of his tail and the heavy breathing in his ear, he knew what he had to do to please his master.

He cried the whole way through. Silent tears slipped down his little snout and onto the fouled surface of the bed. He caught a whiff of vile odour as he sniffled, but soon he could barely even breathe at all through his misery.

His head pounded. There was a throbbing in his ears, the beat in time with his racing heart and double the tempo of the man pressing down on him, and into him.

Just as he thought he could bear no more, before his breath gave out, and before the burning inside became too much, it was over, and he was being pulled upwards and into the other man's arms, gasping as he rose. He continued to sob even as he was embraced, and as the hands ran across his dampened cheeks, then onwards over his shaking shoulders and down his trembling back.

The Pit Boss rubbed him until he settled, the action soothing and comforting. And in response he pushed in closer, desperate again for that gentler touch.

"Good boy" whispered into his ear. He had waited for those words. He had needed them. Vinnie made a small noise and nuzzled harder.

He didn't know what he was doing, only that he had pleased his master, and though it had hurt he knew that it was right, because it was what his master wanted. That it was what he wanted, and that he would be rewarded for it.

This was who he was now, and nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

He didn't know what he was doing anymore.


	37. Hide and Seek

At last his destination was in sight. He had pushed his ship hard the last few days, knowing that time was running short and that the sooner he arrived the sooner he could get the message delivered. Make that both messages.

Something had told him that the little package wasn't merely some token gift for a loved one back home. Never in all the time he had been serving that base had he be given one of those. Security was so high that it just wasn't worth the risk; anyone monitoring his routes could trace such a personal item back to its origin if they really wanted to.

That's what made this delivery so special. So important. So much so that he knew he just had to find out what it was – just in case lives depended on it. And with the nature of the second message he had to pass on, he felt certain that now there were many more lives on the line out there. It was too much of a coincidence to not conclude the two were connected.

Metis had re-read the slip of paper inside the small, wrapped box over a dozen times.

_Assistance required. Non-native ally. At same place they once were._

The recipients address, after 738, was just a jumble of letters and numbers. He recognised the code T4MM, he had seen that once before on a message he had relayed once, years ago, and so he assumed that part was referring to the recipient's planet: Mars. There was a T3 in the rest of the line, and he wondered if that was something to do one of the cities on the surface. He really didn't know. He had never been there himself.

"Captain, we're ready to dock."

His pilot alerted him just moments before the small screen in front of him flashed. A message was coming through from the outpost, and he chuckled softly at what must have been a flustered reaction to his ship's unexpected presence. He was nearly a month early after all.

"Bring her in carefully, don't want to panic these good people anymore than we have done" he told the pilot before rising from his cushioned seat. "I'll be in the docking bay."

Metis left the bridge with a small number of his crew, who despite being traders were no fools, and each discreetly carried a weapon. A lot could have changed since his last visit, which must have been nearly eighteen months ago now, and his impromptu appearance might have done more than just surprise his waiting hosts.

It was with great relief that he was not greeted by a fully-armed contingent of the outpost's security, and as the boarding ramp descended he took in the warm, if slightly bemused smiles on the waiting crew's faces.

"Ah, Captain Metis! Been a long time; a very long time by the looks of you."

At the head of the welcoming party was the leader of the outpost, and he clearly had no problem with the trading ship dropping by unannounced.

"Yes yes, just a pity my eyes haven't gone yet or else i'd be spared having to see you too."

The outpost commander chortled. "Great to see you haven't lost your sense of humour out there. Are you coming in or are you planning on making this a flying visit?"

Metis answered by stepping off his ship and onto the base's rocky floor. Even though space flight didn't tend to involve too many unstable motions, and thus it wasn't possible to feel any real difference between the ship and solid ground, somehow his legs still went a little wobbly when finding himself back on something with its own natural form of gravity.

"I swear this rock spins faster than anywhere else. Tell me again why I bother trading with you, this place always makes me wish I had a longer neck."

The commander tutted sympathetically at his visitor's apparently weak stomach. "You know I was kind of wondering that myself. Care to explain why you were in such a hurry to get back here?"

Metis had allowed himself to be guided into the main part of the station so that they could chat. Like in many of the places he traded with he passed a mixture of faces from a variety of species, several of which were Martian, which made sense as this base was one of the few left of the original outpost settlements deployed from Mars. All those mouse-like faces reminded him of home, though he noticed sadly that he never actually saw any of his own kind here.

His host too was Martian, but not a mouse. Metis didn't pay much attention to the politics of the red planet, but he felt without doubt that this had to be the only Sand Raider in the entire galaxy not working for the Plutarkian empire, or for himself. Well, not including the dog-like man's mate. Elysia was undeniably the boss of the couple, her temper renowned for being just as volatile as the region that she was named after.

The commander himself was no wimp, though, and at over eight foot tall it was difficult to see how anyone could best him. He had fought plenty of battles and sent many a soldier fleeing for his life. But when it came to his mate's sharp mouth...

"Lycus, forgive me. I don't have much time to explain." Metis and his host had reached the outpost's relaxation area, a large and comfortable room where the two of them had many times sat and reminisced. Now they were perched on their favourite sofa-like chair, refreshments in hand, their respective security staff attending to other matters so that they could talk freely.

"Somehow I didn't think you would. You nearly broke down my door with the speed you arrived. Something wrong, old friend?"

The trade-ship captain sighed and handed over the papers he had tucked into his pocket. "I'm afraid so" he said, rubbing his clawed hand through his bi-tonal fur. "I'm not normally one to get involved in all this... war stuff... like to keep my head down, and still attached to my shoulders if at all possible. But this was a little hard to ignore."

Lycus studied the smaller parchment first, and it's address label. "Do you need to know what it means? It's encoded of course."

"No, no... well maybe. I know its heading for Mars, that's all though. I was given it by one of my traders... and then two weeks later I got the other one."

The second parchment made the dog's eyes widen.

"So it's true..." he muttered, "there is resistance presence in the Piscean sector." He breathed out slowly, taking on board the SOS one exhalation at a time. He wasn't sure what surprised him most, that the rumours were true or that his best trade partner had managed to keep it from him for so long.

"Think it's a coincidence, commander? That they should want one message delivered and so soon after find themselves in trouble?"

The Martian shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, I don't know what the message itself means. But you are right though, it's for someone on Mars, and i'm fairly sure part of the code is a relay."

"A relay? Can you tell where to?"

"I might be losing it, it's been a while... but if I was to bet I would say it's heading to Earth."

Metis had heard of Earth, vaguely. He hadn't known that Mars had made contact with it. From what he had been told, the neighbouring planet in that system was not at the ideal stage for extra-terrestrial relations. Which pretty much made them a fairly wide target should any Plutarkians decide to take notice.

The sand raider cleared his throat, and stood. "Well old man, I think we better get going. That message isn't going to send itself, and I doubt our friends in the resistance are going to have the luxury of waiting for us two to finish catching up."

* * *

"Everyone quiet. Firio, hold our position. This is going to be close."

Frost hissed softly as the deep breath he had taken was slowly released between clenched teeth. With one eye half on the pod's scanner he peered towards the huddled members of his crew, each with the same anxious tension drawn on their assorted faces, and inwardly hoped they couldn't see just how troubled he himself felt.

The escape pod had been steered behind the small asteroid, the one that had co-orbited the nearby moon with the one their base had stood on. Once there they had taken advantage of its shielding properties and decided, for the time being, that hiding was a far better option than trying to run. There was only a limited reserve of fuel to propel the tiny craft, perhaps enough to reach the moon, but probably not much further. The pod simply wasn't designed to out-run a chasing ship, nor was it equipped to fight back should it be fired upon. It was merely a capsule, meant only to help its passengers cling onto life for long enough to be rescued, and if that rescue did not appear in time its purpose was something entirely the opposite. As with the base, capture of either its personnel or data was not an option. Once the air supply was depleted the auto-destruct would kick in, ensuring that nothing was left to compromise the safety of anyone that remained of the resistance.

And after three days hovering on the brink of discovery, the time left until that awful finality was rapidly running out.

Time wasn't the only thing in short supply. There was limited space on board the pod, and aside from the control panel up front, and the main bay which was part of the same area, there was a small bathroom located to the rear, plus an access hatch to the engine compartment. The walls consisted of storage lockers, which contained the ration packs, bedding, and minimal medical supplies, but little else, and the benches ringing the bay doubled as beds, also with storage beneath. Each of these containers held a space suit, one each for all the eight passengers aboard, just in case they crash landed on somewhere minus its own atmosphere (which was just about every hunk of rock drifting through this particular part of Plutarkian space).

Needless to say the stress levels amongst the crew were very high, and it was something short of a miracle that these tensions had not erupted into full scale mutiny. Somehow everyone was holding it together, and as yet not one had questioned the reason behind their rushed departure from the base. Frost assumed that they all thought the Plutarkians had found them by themselves, and doubted any here suspected the real cause of their discovery.

After a few minutes of excruciating silence the yellow-furred alien gave a wave, which was followed by a collective exhalation by all. That last pass was too close for comfort. It was to be expected that the Plutarkians wouldn't just leave without searching for them, but it was also inevitable that at some point they would notice the tiny escape pod lurking quietly in the shadow of the remaining asteroid. Each time they detected that Plutarkian vessel doing another sweep, they merely ducked deeper down into a crater and hoped the rock's unique electromagnetic emissions would hide them from the fish's scanners.

All it would take was for one of them to actually take a good look out of the window and the game would be up. Frost was relying on them not being that sensible.

"How many times is that now? Ten? Fifteen?"

Firio turned to the rat that was addressing him, having already – carefully – manoeuvred the pod out of the crater once more. This was necessary because the asteroid's interference also prevented their own distress beacon from being detected, and though they were dangerously exposed when they did this, it was a risk they simply had no choice but to take.

"Twelve. From what I can tell they have a fixed search pattern, which seems to bring them past us roughly four times a day. Hopefully that's the last one for a few hours, assuming they ever actually sleep."

He lowered his somewhat cynical stare to the crew, searching for an answer that would probably never come. Upon seeing their querying yet gloomy gazes he softened, and lamented that none of their green-scaled crew were with them so that he could ask about the circadian rhythms of their species. Unfortunately all the Plutarkian members of their group had either transported to the trade point or escaped on one of the other two pods. Aside from poor Holo, he thought sadly.  _That young fish had so much potential._

"Well I hope you're right, Firio, I really do." Frost dropped his voice, "because I don't think we can keep this up for much longer."

"Agreed" said Firio, who managed to hold back the obvious question 'but what else can we do?'

"Is the signal definitely broadcasting?" the rat asked suddenly, his exasperation evident. "Surely someone would have picked it up by now, the encryption was designed to only block Plutarkians, but there's got to be someone else out there besides them."

Frost stood and paced the tiny space behind the control panel. It was all he could do to stop himself just exploding in frustration, losing it and causing a panic, or else crumbling down into despair. He knew he had to be strong, like had had done when his mate had fallen apart at the base, and like he had done when she had been captured and no one else believed she could be saved. He had to be as strong now, if not stronger, because it wasn't just his and her lives at risk now – it was everyone's. Everyone on this pod, on the other pods, on their ships out there in Plutarkian space; everyone between here and home, all those many miles away. Everyone was depending on him.

It was a huge burden, and one he desperately wished he didn't have to carry on his own.

Firio confirmed that their distress beacon was active, and in light of the near predictability of the searching ship's fly-bys he decided it was an appropriate time for a nap. Whilst he put his head down on a vacant bench, Frost took his place at the helm.

For a long time the rat just sat there. He had re-familiarised himself with the various buttons and levers before him – in particular the one that made the pod descend – and taken his time to go through the procedure in his mind. Drop 150 feet, stabilisers on, reduce power output. Then wait, hold breath, and hope above all that no one sneezes. Not that such a noise would literally be 'heard' by a passing ship, for there is no sound in the vacuum of space, but the detection systems on board those vessels of such an advanced species were equipped to pick up on minute changes in electrical impulses. Frost had no idea just how well the asteroid's field could hide them, and he didn't fancy putting it to the test just yet.

From the corner of his vision he saw movement, and jumped a little. It was only his mate, stirring fretfully in her sleep. Kalis hadn't woken once since drifting off, though every time she did move or make a sound his heart would find its way to his mouth. It pained him to have to keep her blindfolded, but again it just wasn't worth it to find out if her mind was her own once more. One look out of the viewing portal would give away their position instantly.

 _I'm so sorry Kalis_ , he thought, his stomach twisting.  _If only we could have stopped this sooner._

But what was done was done, and it did not escape him that there was more to this whole sorry mess than he would like to think. Somewhere out there was someone else as desperate as they were, perhaps so much so that they would sacrifice the safety of the hidden base to gain the freedom that they needed.

He didn't know Charley in the same way his sleeping mate did. Yet though he still was wary about the motivations of the other woman, he had experienced firsthand the kind of situation that would push someone to think or behave in a selfish manner. He couldn't blame the human for trying to get their help despite the repercussions.

However it had come about was not the issue now, and Frost resolved to keep his mind focused on what really mattered. Getting his crew to safety, and getting their precious intel into the hands of the people who needed it to survive. His people. And anyone who lived in fear of the Plutarkian infection.

His musings had left him tired, and with his eyes falling once more on the stilled form of his mate he was filled with yearning. He was fed up with the war, with hiding, and with not being able to go home. It was his duties to that faraway place that kept him here and, regrettably, also kept him apart from her.

Frost took one last quick look at the pod's own scanners, and seeing nothing amiss quietly left the control panel desk to sit with Kalis. He gathered her gently into his arms, tucking her slender body against his, and wrapping his long tail around hers and their legs until all their limbs were intertwined. His breathing slowed. The exhaustion from being on a knife-edge for so long was creeping up on him, and the warmth and texture of her soft-coated skin against his was soothing. He relaxed.

"Commander?"

A pair of dark eyes were in front of his nose, and he startled. One of the crew was shaking him, and he knew from their embarrassed look that he had fallen asleep.

"Huh? Oh right...thanks..." Frost struggled to sit up, and the officer who had woken him took his place back on his own bench. Clearly they had spotted the commander's drooping lids and took it upon themselves to keep watch for a while whilst he got some rest. Noting the time on the small clock on the control panel Frost could see he had been out for several hours.

"Dammit!" he swore, wondering what would have happened if the searching fish-led vessel had happened to take another look at that moment. It was just lucky that it hadn't, or else they would really be in trouble.  _Better not let that happen again you stupid rat_ , he berated himself internally.

After another hour Firio resumed his own watch, and almost like clockwork the Plutarkians did their routine sweep behind the asteroid. From their hiding place in the crater they waited, hoping that the ship would move away so that they could resume their SOS in safety. Eventually it did, but there was still no sign that anyone had received their message. There was also no sign of either of the other two pods, and it was with deepening regret that Frost concluded they had either been captured, or destroyed. More likely the latter, so long as they continued to follow protocol.

The rat rubbed his temple. He hated to think such awful things, but that was the reality he was stuck with. It was a brutal world they lived in, and sometimes difficult choices had to be made in order for some to survive. They had decided to be the ones to make that decision, knowing full well just how far the line of duty extended in their particular case.

He felt sick. He wasn't sure if it was his disgust at their predicament or something he ate, but he definitely felt queasy.

"Sir, it's going to be at least another six hours until the next pass. You should get some rest; you look terrible."

The yellow-furred alien touched his shoulder, breaking him out of his troubled reverie. His orange eyes betrayed the concern the rest of his face was graciously trying to hide, and seeing this Frost nodded. "If you don't mind keeping watch, then I guess you're right. Try to keep the noise down, and no parties alright?"

Firio smirked.  _As if_ , he thought; the after effects of the last one was still evident in the sunrise yellow glow from his pelt.

The alien turned back to the control panel once Frost had settled. Like the rat he too ran through the procedure for a quick descent into the crater, though it was hardly necessary as he had done it so many times now he could practically do it in his sleep.

Sleep. Oh how he needed some of that right now; the proper kind, not just the occasional light nap.

He turned around on his chair and observed how the entire crew were at rest except him.  _Peace at last?_  It was very quiet on the pod, and he remarked to himself the obvious lack of snoring coming from the main bay. He knew that some species were actually unable to snore, his own included, and yet others apparently were incredibly gifted at loud nocturnal rumblings. Plutarkians being number one on that list. It made him chuckle. One day he had caught Holo napping in the canteen, not that it was difficult because he could be heard halfway down the corridor. The mortified young fish had suffered over a month of teasing after that.

The memory amused him for a while, but soon Firio's attention turned back to his duties, and as he watched the clock's hours slowly pass he felt the tension in him rise once more. It seemed that a couple of the crew were following the same rhythm because they woke just in time for the next descent into the crater, and once the danger had passed settled back down on their bench-like beds. Frost hadn't stirred this time, and Firio decided to leave him be for now.

After a few more hours of working in silence, the yellow-furred alien began to feel a little drowsy himself. He sat there and debated waking someone up to cover his watch, but everyone looked so calm it seemed a shame to end it.

_Damn. Looks like another triple shift for me then._

It irked him somewhat that the rest of the pod's inhabitants seemed to do nothing but nap, in between the brief bouts of nervous excitement as their enemy drew close. Although even that fervour seemed to be declining over time, despite the increasing danger they were in, and he almost wondered if they would reach a point where they might just sleep through it all, blissfully unaware, until their end was reached.

It was an odd and unsettling idea. Something about it all was bothering him too. To keep himself occupied, and awake, Firio decided it would be prudent do run a few diagnostics just to be safe. Half an hour later the results showed nothing untoward with the pod's systems. He had even checked the air supplies, which were now just under fifty percent, and the atmospheric monitors in the cabin did not register any alarms. Most of the species on board were quite tolerant of high levels of carbon dioxide, and at least one of them was immune to the effects of several other poisonous gases as well.

Nonetheless Firio checked everything twice, if anything because his gut was prodding at him to do so, and also because it was an effective boredom filler. That accomplished he settled back down to his watch, still feeling decidedly sleepy, and still with that nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

He checked the clock again. Four hours until the next pass.  _Don't those fish ever give up?_

It was a waiting game that he knew they were unlikely to win.

Frost's words from the day before came into his mind. Surely someone out there had got their distress call? Maybe the rat was right, maybe their signal  _wasn't_  broadcasting. Maybe there was a computer glitch, a technical error, or something.

Maybe he had better check it out, just in case. It would pass some time and put his mind at ease, he decided, as he began a further round of diagnostics. Once again they came back showing nothing wrong with the pod.

Yet another hour ticked by, and still the crew slept on. Firio was used to keeping himself company – he wasn't the most sociably of aliens – but the lack of  _any_  movement was really starting to get to him. It wasn't that he resented his duties, in fact he took pride in his work no matter how tedious, but that needling feeling that something wasn't quite right was simply making everything more difficult today.

 _Damn it._ He needed to know, and there was only one way to find out.

Cursing repeatedly to himself, Firio stalked over to where the his two superior officers were embraced in sleep, and rummaged around their clothing for a while. It took him a few minutes of searching, but eventually he found the data chip buried inside the thick sole of the rat's right boot. He chewed his cheeks. No normal person would have slept through such a thorough inspection of pockets.

The data chip of the base's entire intel and operational files was soon open on the control panel's computer. There was so much information here he could have spent hours just sifting through one folder, but with some kind of intuition at play Firio honed his search to just one file. Probably the most obscure of them all, and yet undoubtedly the most important. One paragraph in particular stood out amongst the rest:

_The unique properties of the double-lunar orbiting asteroids in the Piscean sector make them an ideal location for siting covert operational bases, and outposts of high strategic importance. In nearly all cases the two bodies will complement each other's individual electromagnetic signatures, the exact nature of which are not yet recognized. What is known, from limited research, is that the smaller of the two normally emits a form of radiation that conceals matter on the surface of the other, larger asteroid. The harmful effects of this radiation are cancelled out by the emissions from the larger, thus enabling it to support infrastructure containing living organisms with minimal risk._

_ Advisory notes. _ _Outposts and bases should only be located on the larger asteroid of a pair. Radiation levels should be routinely monitored. Orphaned bodies are not recommended. Further research needed._

Looking around the small bay it was obvious to him now. He had to raise the pod further. He had to hope that salvation was close, because there was less than three hours before the next fly-by, and the more distance he put between them and the asteroid the more exposed they were to discovery. But he had to chance it.

Carefully Firio had the pod rise beyond the rim of the crater. Slowly he brought it up and further away from the electromagnetic field. Before they had been on the border of where the interference would block their own signal, but now they were well and truly clear. But not far enough to escape the danger the rock itself posed; to do that he would have to go much further away, and that wasn't really an option either. Firio really hated lose-lose situations.

So far so good though, he thought, for the pod's scanners detected no other ships nearby. He had time to think. Perhaps they could make a run for it, if only he knew the course of the fish's search pattern. Perhaps he could somehow follow them as they went by, hiding in their wake; he had heard of that being done before, somewhere. It was something he felt sure Frost would approve of, and maybe even the General. He hoped so, anyway, because it didn't look like they were going to wake up any time soon, not if he didn't put some distance between them and that asteroid.

Firio turned back to the control panel, having spent a few minutes gazing out of the portal window to get his bearings. It felt like some kind of sick joke that what had for so long helped them remain concealed now only served to expose them.

And that awful eventuality was determined to hasten its appearance. A small amber-coloured LED lit up on the desk, and a soft beep sounded. Firio's face fell. Below that light were two words embossed on the panel:  _Proximity alert_.

Their sensors had detected something. It had only been a matter of time before the pod was raised well clear of the interference, and that's exactly what they had been waiting for. And that one tiny noise was the only warning that the ship hovering right overhead now had them clearly in its sights.


	38. Brother no more

Day by day Vinnie's world changed around him. Changes so subtle an outsider would barely perceive them. Changes so profound the familiar would stand back astounded. Changes that to many would seem so small they might be dismissed as insignificant, yet were in fact quite the opposite.

Each day since his night in his master's private quarters something would happen that would edge Vinnie closer to his one and only goal: Freedom. Not escape – he had long given up on that impossibility – but instead the more attainable goal of being allowed something of himself to return. And that one thing he longed for was quite simple. He wanted his voice back, and he would do anything to get it.

Anything.

If he had to endure being the object of the Pit Boss's carnal desires, then so be it. At the end of each day he would follow the man to the upstairs of the castle, and though he hung his head in embarrassment, and tried his best to simultaneously ignore the giggles of the pit crew left behind him, the fluttering in his belly, and the dryness in his sealed mouth, he would hold his hopes ever higher that his reward was coming. Or it would do, if he did what was expected of him.

The whole experience flew hard in the face of everything he had been taught as a young male Martian mouse. And yet, in a strange way, also complimented it. That's what he told himself anyway. Each night, as he bore his master's hefty body upon his own, he would reassure himself by making the connection to a long forgotten past, a life he once had. A life that was infinitely more honourable than this. He would tell himself that this was just like Mars, that it was just like with his comrades, and that this was just part of the process. The process of bonding. A sacred process, now corrupted.

Of course Vinnie's mind had been twisted so much by need and desperation that he no longer saw the act as a violation, and after each session would lift his tear-stained face to the man above him and welcome the scant caress that followed.

The Pit Boss would dry his eyes and pull him close, and rub him and pet him until he soothed. And then he would have him returned to the workshop, if Vinnie had been fortunate enough to fall asleep. If not, then the white mouse was encouraged to go further to show his devotion to his new role, and that's when things stopped making any sense at all.

Or at least Vinnie ceased trying to comprehend them. He drew more parallels with what he knew from his youth, and then having accepted them as such drew his confused and inquiring thoughts to an end. It no longer mattered why the man wanted him to do such odd things; he wanted him to and so he did them, end of story.

It was without doubt that the Pit Boss was not a one-dimensional thug like the men he employed; his motives and actions were complicated and underwritten by hidden nuances of his true character, so much so that even those who had known him the longest did not try to unravel them, and certainly did not pretend to try to understand him.

He was clever, controlling and sadistic, and at his simplest a pervert. In the environment he had created in the Pits he was terrifying and omnipotent. Like a chess player he controlled his pieces with such forethought he could almost predict an outcome from his very first move.

And so it came to pass that he had his kingdom, his crew, his slaves, and the three mice he had so desired, and in particular he had the one he had most sought after  _right where he wanted him_.

And now that he had him there, he was going to make damn sure he was put to good use.

Those times that Vinnie did make it back to the metal shop he would resume his place under Wes's care, and with the daily needs dealt with he would be taken out again and put to work. He would complete his tasks and then find himself back at the foot of the granite throne, and a new set of duties would begin. The same set each evening, the same each day, variation only in the details of their enactment.

Thus each day would go by, and the moment that Vinnie hoped for would draw closer. One small change per day, one step nearer to freedom.

* * *

How long had he been down here now? he wondered. There was no night and day, no variation between activity and inactivity. Nothing to mark the passing of time at all in this wretched place. Just the continuous periodic cries of despair, the screams of pain, and the banging of doors to indicate when one of those would end and the other begin.

His own means of transitioning between the two had not yet opened once. It stood stubbornly shut, unmoving and unyielding, a constant barrier between his existence and theirs.

His bros. Had they forgotten him? Had he been erased from their minds like he had from the world above? Did anyone remember he, and they, existed at all?

Throttle had plenty of time for these questions to be asked again and again in his mind. He lay there in his tiny, windowless, lightless cell, pressed between the solid stone walls and bare rock floor, unable to leave, scarcely able to move. The pit crew had ensured his long wait in the bowels of the castle be as uncomfortable as possible; they had seen him soundly beaten before being thrown in, and with no space and no bedding the bloodied mouse was forced to lie on an increasingly dirtied floor. Occasionally a slot in the bottom of the heavy door would open and a shallow dish of wetted food be slid in. His only sustenance.

The mouse had tried his best to avoid soiling himself and his wounds, and after the first few meals had pushed that dish back out re-filled. Whoever was outside obviously didn't approve and the next time the dish appeared it was as he had left it, and Throttle had quickly gotten the hint. Each time the dish appeared it became harder and harder for him to consume its fare, not because of what it was (the usual prison glop) but because of what it became. It became more difficult for the wasted mouse to decide if it really was worth it any more. What was the point in eating when he might not ever see beyond these walls? If he was meant for a slow death, cushioned by his own filth, then he would rather quicken it and be all the cleaner when it came.

Then the slot in the door would draw open again, and Throttle was forced to stare at the appalling choices that he had once more.

* * *

The first night with his master had been awful. Vinnie must have sobbed for well over an hour afterwards, his body wracked with the terrible combination of pain and shame, both of which slowly dissipated into the gentle embrace he was given to soothe him. By the time he had calmed he was almost asleep, and could barely feel himself being lifted and carried out from the dorm and passed into the arms of one of the waiting crew. Or another slave. Vinnie never knew who it was because the exhaustion had finally overcome his senses.

By the time he awoke it was on his straw pile in the little workshop. The woollen blanket had been pulled over him and he felt noticeably warmer with it. Vinnie buried his nose in the fabric and inhaled; it was a familiar and comforting smell, vastly different from what he had had to breathe in earlier. There were other scents, too, of antiseptic and soap, which the mouse knew meant he had been bathed since his return.

To his relief the smell of his master had been washed away, but even so he could still feel the man on his skin, and inside where it continued to hurt him considerably. He wondered if Wes had attended to that as well, flushing him in the usual manner, or if he had been ordered not to? He wondered just what exactly the metal-moulding man thought of him now. Surely he knew what had become of him up there in the castle? Did it make any difference to him, knowing that no matter what the changes on the surface, deep down Vinnie was just as much as a slave as anyone else?

But not like anyone else. He was something more now, he reminded himself, just like the man who tended to him. They weren't identical, but they were the same. Vinnie also wondered if Wes had ever been subjected to their master's strange affections. It was unlikely, the welder seemed to have almost been given to the head of the pit crew, Flint, and his closer cronies to play with at their own leisure. If there was one thing Vinnie had worked out about his master, it was that he didn't like sharing.

The biggest clue to that came in the form of his next reward. Vinnie might not have thought much of it beyond the obvious, but when his carer drew back the blanket to check on his patient his comment about it was telling.

"That'll protect you from more than the cold" the man had said, lifting the old cotton shirt to clean the wounds on his chest where the manacles had dug in.

Vinnie swallowed, averting his eyes from the man so that he couldn't see what he was feeling flashing across his face. It was a mixed bag; there was the embarrassment and shame, the pain and the hurt, the uncertainty and confusion – all of which were expected – but then there was also something else. A little bit of  _pride_. Even as Wes removed his trousers so that he could dab the torn flesh beneath his tail with ointment, and even as he murmured something about the practicalities of stitching such a location, Vinnie increasingly felt that tiny glow of pleasure in knowing he had satisfied his master, no matter the cost to himself.

When Wes had done his duties to his charge and began his work for the day, a knock at the door signalled the mouse's own job was to start. Like in the previous days he was to shadow various members of the crew and guards, and under their watchful eye he was to take his place in the administration of the slave mine.

Many of the slaves still had no idea what was to be the next chapter in their lives in the Pits, but for the time being it was as if little had changed. Each day they were led out into the mine as usual, and required to continue their work in breaking the heavy rock and carting it off to various locations around the prison and the castle. Rumours flew that the Pit Boss desired a second castle, or a larger prison, or a larger space in which to build. More chilling gossip carried the idea that they were building something worse, something that might be used to ensure their suffering continued until the very end, and that this place might even facilitate that end.

Vinnie overheard the crew themselves musing over the Pit Boss's plans for his slave colony and the mine. What he heard was that something of value had been discovered down here in the caverns, and that there was money to be earned from the slaves' hard labour. To him this seemed like a very likely scenario; having spent years fighting off Limburger's attempts to pillage the city's natural resources it only made sense that the land still had much to offer, being as it had been so attractive to the foreign fish in the first place.

Whatever was going to happen didn't concern him though. The white mouse was focused on his given task, which was to oversee the slaves and make sure they weren't distracted from their work. Control stick in hand Vinnie gazed down upon the mine with determination. He was going to make sure he did his duties well, for he yearned for another chance to please his master, and take himself a step closer to his ultimate reward.

That night was his second in the upstairs room of the castle. On top of the previous session's wounds this time felt like torture, and instead of silent tears there were distinct, if muffled, yelps coming from Vinnie's smothered throat. But it wasn't so bad; the mouse knew that when it was over there would be something less rough in store for him, and if anything he suspected his master had hurried things along a little to reach it.

Whilst Vinnie let it all out the Pit Boss adjusted him in his arms into a cradle position. He rocked the crying white mouse for a while, and Vinnie soon calmed down and the tears stopped. He was given a few more minutes to settle, and then finally the man spoke.

"Open your eyes my pet, I have something special for you."

The crooning words of his master had Vinnie snap alert in an instant, and there above him he saw in the Pit Boss's grubby fingers what he had wanted to see for so long.

The little scissors made short work of the threads in his lips, but to his disappointment only two of them were cut. Two stitches just to the right of his buck teeth, and once they were severed the Pit Boss explored the new hole with one of his grimy digits. He seemed quite satisfied with his work, and shifted his slave into a new position. One which Vinnie had not experienced anything like for the largest part of his life, and would hence forever block from his mind if he had the choice.

"Good boy" once again reached his ears, and he relaxed slightly. It was odd, but it wasn't too terrible.

 _Just another part of the process_ , he assured himself. Just another step towards freedom.

* * *

Apparently they didn't want him to starve to death. For the first time in his life, and since his incarceration, he experienced what it was like to be well and truly force-fed.

Now the tan mouse knew how his younger bro had felt, and it wasn't at all enjoyable.  _Poor Vinnie_ , he thought,  _how did he manage it? And with his mouth sewn as well..._

At least he didn't have to suffer that. Throttle deeply regretted how he had regarded his white-furred friend's punishment, and now with a tube pushing down his own snout he could only feel sorry for what it must have been like for Vinnie to endure. He was getting nutritious food pumped into his belly, but the other mouse had been much less fortunate.

The guards left and the door slammed shut once more. It had been the first glimpse of the dimly lit cell block Throttle had had since being locked down here, and for a brief second he had also been able to see just how dire his current situation was: Very dire.

And now the bulge in his belly only further reminded him of how much worse it was going to get.

* * *

Several days passed by with the same routine. Vinnie continued to return daily to the wooden workshop so that the welder could attend to his daily necessities; he still required liquefied food plus the anti-emetic to be syringed down his nasal tube, and now with the nightly sessions in the castle there were other matters of the medical kind to be addressed. But these visits became less and less frequent as the mouse's duties in the mine increased, and the duration of each visit now only ever lasted for as long as was needed.

After a week though it became noticeable to Vinnie that there was something missing from all of this. He had not seen either of the other two mice at all, neither in the mine nor their cages; and though he sometimes caught a whiff of the older mouse's scent, fresh as if he had just missed him, the other was distinctly absent from anywhere he went, including the arena and throne room.

He vaguely remembered the looks on their faces the last time he had seen them. They had been stunned, horrified even, and he was surprised he didn't at all feel bad about that. And it didn't even occur to him that Throttle's desperate plea for him to stop might be the reason he had all but vanished from the slave colony. Vinnie was only starting to wonder why he had not seen them, but only because he now wanted to really show them just how far he had come since they had abandoned him.

Then, on the eighth day since he last set eyes upon them, there he was. Modo was in the mine, pulling the heavy carts as if nothing had ever changed.

But something had changed. It wasn't just that the grey mouse was out there on his own, nor that some of his more physical suffering had been relieved, and that his healing was beginning to take effect. It wasn't just those things that made a difference.

It was him. Vinnie had changed; he stood on the crest of the mine wall looking down at the other mouse and swelled at the vast dissimilarities between them. He stood tall and clothed, nourished and cared for. Modo was still just a slave, an animal, a working animal. Nothing but a chained beast. A beast that didn't seem to be working hard enough, Vinnie thought.

The control stick in his hand twitched. Vinnie looked between the grey mouse and his stick, and then up at the guard who was with him today. It was the same man who had once taken delight in tormenting the larger slave, and whom Vinnie had once loathed for it. But not this time. One inquiring look at the man was all it took to confirm it.

The guard quickly pulled out his radio, and soon after several of the crew had gathered around them to watch.

"Go ahead mouse, do your thing" the gleeful-faced guard said, not really needing to give his charge the slight push that he did. "Your master will be very pleased" he added with only a slightly suppressed giggle.

Behind Vinnie there was a small chorus of accompanying laughter. He didn't even hear it, only the words in his mind which were to focus him to his task. One that he knew he would be highly rewarded for.

* * *

Deep down in the dark depths of the castle he could hear voices. Excited voices. They drifted through the door to his ears, distant yet distinct all the same.

Throttle lay still as he listened to the guards' chatter in the next corridor. He recognised one voice; the head goon must have been doing his rounds, by which he meant picking on one of the other captives to abuse out of sheer boredom.

_Sounds like he'll get a reprieve today._

The tan mouse sighed. He wondered which poor soul would be taking his place. From the level of enthusiasm he could detect it was likely to be quite a show, and would probably even be worthy of the Pit Boss's attention . A real source of entertainment for the pit crew, who seemed to suffer from a lack of other amenities to keep them safely occupied. Throttle slapped his tail in disdain. Lucky them, he mused, and unlucky slave  _whoever you are_.

* * *

En-route to his load's drop-off point Modo was flagging. It had been a long day in the mine, and though some of his energy had returned since being relieved of his nocturnal duties, not to mention finally being free of that dreadful thing on his sheath, his long interment had taken a significant toll on his body. As strong as he had been, that was long gone. It had maintained him far longer than many, but now he was thin and weak, and falling behind. Soon he would fall and not get up; it was only a matter of time now, he thought dully.

His mind was buried in his own negativities, and Modo was unaware that his consequent slowing had been noticed. Being whipped to speed him on his way was so commonplace though he barely even flinched when he felt the first strike land.

It was the second, and then the third, and then the fourth that drew his eyes upwards. Why would the guards beat him so much that he couldn't even get up to continue his work? It didn't make sense to Modo, until he glanced up to see the source of his over-heavy punishment.

His own blood. Not by birth, but by bond. Vinnie was glaring down at him in a terrifying manner, the small rod dripping red still clutched tightly in his hand and raised above its target, poised to deliver yet another cruel blow.

Modo didn't even know how to comprehend what had just happened, not rationally anyway. There was his bro, his comrade, his friend, standing above him with the same look on his face as he had had the last time he saw him. The same look that had drawn Modo from his stupor just in time to witness that abominable transformation take place. His bro, now a murderer. A monster.

_Noo, Vinnie!_

Squeaking in fear he hurriedly pulled himself to his feet, and with all the strength he had left he leaned hard into the straps of his harness and willed his body and his legs to keep on going.

But he wasn't going fast enough and he felt more lashes, determined strikes to his heels and thighs, more than just simple motivation.

This was revenge, and he could feel it. His own bro was seeking retribution. He was yearning for his blood. And there was only one person responsible for all this, and it was he that had the final say on the matter.

"Enough!" The Pit Boss had appeared to see the action, and with a wave of his hand the white mouse ceased his beating of the other animal-slave.

Whilst Modo struggled onwards, desperate to get away from this new nightmare he found himself in, Vinnie left the mine and returned to his master's side. He smiled. The man looked very happy with his work, and the cheering of the other crew only added to the growing satisfaction he himself felt. Vinnie dropped to his knees and pressed his face against the Pit Boss, looking hopefully upwards for a sign that this was so. He got it.

"Good boy, mouse. Very, very good."

The malicious man grinned smugly, petting Vinnie's head by his side. Once again he had been spot on. He knew that if he withheld the encounter with the other mouse until the right moment that he would get the desired result. And he had; his new pet had taken the opportunity with great relish, and proved himself loyal to his master whilst also severing ties with his past. There was only one more tie left and the white mouse would be his forever.

"Excellent, in fact. You have earned yourself another chance to please your master. Would you like that?"

The Pit Boss smirked. Of course the mouse wanted it. Vinnie was practically begging to be led into the castle, and had he been so inclined he would have offered himself up right here and now.

"Later, mouse. For now I want you to return to your current duties. Try not to kill anyone today please, I need a decent sized workforce for upcoming projects."

Vinnie nodded and rose to join the other guard back at their station. He didn't even flick an ear to the conversation unfolding between the Pit Boss and Flint as they left for the castle, but instead refocused himself back to the slaves toiling wearily below them.

Stick in hand he waited for one of them to stumble.

* * *

"Another day I reckon, then we'll see."

"Do you think he will do it? I mean... do you think the Pit Boss is right about this?"

"Course he is, he has been so far hasn't he?"

"Yeah, well either way it's going to be fun to watch. Another day you say? Great, i'm getting sick of the smell. Dirty fucking rat."

Throttle's eyes flipped open. Even though he hadn't heard much, just the fact that they were talking about them was telling enough. Something was going to happen. In one day something would happen, and even if he didn't know what it was he knew that afterwards things would be different.

It'll all be over soon, he thought.  _Just one more day and one of us will be free._

* * *

Hour by hour his world changed around him. Vinnie woke that morning in the large double to find a pair of boots waiting for him on the floor. He had been meant to receive them a few days earlier, apparently, but other matters had taken precedence over a slave's clothing.

The Pit Boss now stroked his back as he tentatively inspected the heavy rubber soles. It had been so long since he had had anything on his feet he wasn't even too sure what to do with them.

"Go ahead, try them on my mouse. They're just your size... I should know, I spent a long time searching for the perfect set."

Vinnie nodded and slipped each boot on in turn. Though strange, and somewhat claustrophobic, the sensation was slowly becoming familiar again, and he took his first shoed steps around the bed with careful hesitation. He wobbled a little, but eventually got the hang of moving in them, and their weight. It took him a few more minutes to realise these weren't just any boots, _but his own_.

He threw himself down onto the Pit Boss in joy and nuzzled into him, throaty squeaks indicating his intense gratitude and pleasure. The man laughed and pulled him into an embrace. "You're welcome my pet, a well-earned reward indeed."

Sensing that there might be more Vinnie pushed further to show his affections, flipping himself over and nuzzling hard into the fabric of the Pit Boss's fouled shirt.

"Clever boy" he crooned in response, "You know there's more don't you?"

From his pocket the Pit Boss slowly fished out a small key, drawing out the suspense, and Vinnie upped his muted squeaking in excitement. At last, at long last!

The manacles fell away from his wrists leaving the mouse staring in awe at the furless flesh below. As with his ankles it made him sick at the sight of the raw, welted skin, and he looked away once it had registered that his arms were finally free. To emphasise his appreciation he wrapped his liberated forelimbs around the hefty man's huge waist and hugged tightly.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you._

"Yes my little mouse, I know. Just one more thing left to give you now isn't there?" The Pit Boss dropped his voice to a whisper, knowing that Vinnie would be paying full attention to his every word. "And you're going to have to do something very special for me if you want your last reward."

* * *

The door groaned on its hinges as it was pulled back from the frame. The meagre light of the torches flooded the small space, now exposed, and the huddled figure within cringed at the relative brightness.

This was it, Throttle guessed.  _They've come for me, it's all over_.

"On your feet, rat" the guard ordered, tugging harshly at the chain connected to his neck. "You stink, disgusting animal. Sleeping in your own shit. Now i'm the one who has to clean it all up. What do you think of that huh?"

The man clearly wasn't in a good mood, and Throttle's ribs bore the brunt of his frustrations. It was little mercy that he chose to use his boots instead of a rod, but it was likely he had been told to not do more damage than was necessary. Why exactly escaped him, but he knew there must be some meaning for it.

The tan mouse was dragged down the shadowy corridor for the second, and last time. Beyond its terminus he didn't know what was waiting for him, only that he hoped that at its end was his own, for nothing else could possibly be worse than that, surely?

* * *

Vinnie had been returned to the little workshop once the Pit Boss had done with him. The welder received instructions via the guard that the mouse was to be cleaned and fed, and some other small preparations for the afternoon. He was to keep him there until then, at which point Wes was to take him directly to the castle.

The slight-framed man sighed as he read the note in his hand, and left for his back room to run another bath. When it was ready he led the mouse through to the sitting room, pulled off his clothing and examined the white-furred body before him.

Soon the mouse was in the tub and the antiseptic soap kneaded into his broken and scarred skin. Vinnie noticed that his carer seemed distant, and that the man hardly made a sound as he worked on cleaning him up. Normally Wes would give a running commentary on just about everything he did, but the last few days had said less and less, until today he was practically as mute at his patient.

The welder didn't say anything about the mouse's new footwear, nor about the lack of manacles and the wounds they had left beneath. He didn't make any remark as to the blood oozing from the re-opened tears beneath Vinnie's tail, and simply snorted in contempt as he pulled his small first aid kit from the sitting room desk. He hadn't let these subtleties alter his normal practice with the mouse though; that iron collar was still in place for a reason.

Vinnie stood chained to the wall and gritted his teeth as the man finally gave in and began stitching. He hoped that this would be the last visit he would have to pay the metal shop and its occupant, and despite all the help he had been given here, right now the lack of conversation or compassion really irritated him.

 _He should be happy for me,_  Vinnie growled mutely.  _If it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here; I wouldn't be what I am now._

He must have vocalised his annoyance because Wes looked up and caught his eye. But he still said nothing, and merely shook his head sadly and resumed his task. Vinnie wrinkled his face but held back from anything further. Soon enough he would show him. He was something more now, just like he was. He knew who he was, why couldn't Wes just accept that?

The last thing the metal-moulding mouse doctor did for him was to give him breakfast and his meds, and then with one more unhappy glance at the white-furred face before him, Wes pulled the tube from his nose in one, final, smooth motion.

"You probably won't been needing this anymore" he muttered, tossing the slender feeding tube to one side.

Vinnie sniffed hard a few times, and rubbed the tip of his snout to explore his newly freed nostril. He looked up at the man, hoping to convey that he knew he was right, but Wes had already turned away to begin his own work.

So the mouse lay down on his straw bed and waited. His stomach swirled with anxiety; his instincts were telling him that when that door opened he was going to have one, and only one, chance to show his master his complete devotion. And he really didn't want to fail him.

* * *

After what had happened yesterday Modo had spent the hours since in a daze. It was hard for someone like him to even imagine that kind of betrayal, let alone be the one to experience it. The closest comparison he could make in his mind was to that of on Mars, where it came from all sides at all levels; species against species; government against populous; friends against friends. The treason committed by the rat infiltrator Mace was probably the only thing that even came close to what the grey mouse had just witnessed. And felt.

Though Vinnie had not hit him again, his very presence in the mine had been just as painful. The gentle giant mouse had actually cowered the next time his white-furred kin had walked by him, and that alone made his insides writhe in turmoil.

How could Vinnie do that to him? How could his own bro turn against him?

He knew why; he knew it was because of what had happened to Vinnie and his own reaction to it. Modo knew that turning his face away from the suffering of his young friend had ultimately fractured their close bond. He knew that deep down, and lamented the loss of that most special of connections that only his kind could feel.

Back in his cage that night he had tossed and turned, unable to sleep from the pain and the hurt and the guilt, until eventually his body was too tired to even feel those any more and he passed out. It was some time the next day when he finally woke, and he knew by the silence in the prison yard that it was later than his normal rousing.

In fact, his sensitive nose detected the lingering smell of the midday feast that often wafted from the castle to the mine, and he surmised the guards must have been ordered to let him sleep into the afternoon. Now they were pulling him to his feet and towards the source of that fading aroma.

Modo assumed he wouldn't be getting any leftovers today. Whatever the reason for this abrupt change to his routine, he knew better than to hope for anything as benign as an invitation to dinner.

* * *

Minute by minute his world was changing around him.

It had not been long since Wes had dropped the white-furred mouse off at the castle, and now alone Vinnie paced the empty floor of the arena, waiting in mounting excitement for whatever his next task was to be. Not that he was even attempting to imagine what that was; he kept his mind focused on his goal, and not the path to reach it.

Soon, he thought. Soon he would be free. Soon his mouth would be free of its bindings, and he would once more have a voice. Or at least he would have a mouth again, a whole mouth, not just a small hole with limited uses.

Vinnie squirmed at that image. He couldn't wait to move beyond liquid foods and put his teeth back to use again. Though what state they would be in after all this time, and after being ground away by the Pit's thoughtless doctor, was another matter entirely.

But maybe teeth weren't so much the issue here, as a little flicker in the back of his mind brought a memory of something the Pit Boss had murmured in his ear that morning. He pushed the thought away. His master wouldn't do that to him, not after having him wait for so long to have his mouth opened up and put back to use.

He hoped not anyway. But it didn't matter, he was so close now. Another step closer to freedom, another step closer to being allowed a voice. OK so that was another step beyond what had been promised, but he felt confident he could earn that too, especially if he did his best to please his master today.

After pacing the whole room for a few more minutes the back door to it finally swung open. Between two of the guards was a third figure, the double chains around his neck pulling him forward and preventing him from deviating from the direct line to his tether.

Modo was soon fixed between two iron loops on the stone floor so that he was facing the centre of the oval arena. His grey body shook; clearly by the expression on his gentle face he was petrified, but also he must have been freezing cold, as his fur was still wet from having been doused by the cold water of the pressure hose.

The large mouse shivered and his eyes were wide with fear. He pulled himself down and away from the approaching white figure as far as the tether chains would allow him, which wasn't far, and Vinnie smirked in satisfaction at his ex-friend's reaction.

It felt good to finally be the one at the top, at the head of their trio. For too long he had been regarded as the junior member of their group, the lowest ranking, the most subordinate. Not now, he thought. He had taken a step up, and it was he that was in control now.

Or at least he would be soon. It finally occurred to him that this might be what his master wanted, and his suspicions were soon to be all but confirmed.

The side door of the oval room opened next. Vinnie watched as the rings of seats around and above him slowly filled, and what must have been almost the entire pit crew and many of the off-duty guards took their places to witness the event.

The Pit Boss entered shortly after and took his place on the throne. He beckoned the white mouse over, and once in range he pulled Vinnie down by his iron collar and into his lap.

"Such a good boy" he murmured, "such a good, good boy."

Vinnie ignored the muffled snorts coming from the stands and nuzzled hard into the fat felon's rounded chest. He felt the Pit Boss sigh beneath him, and persisted in his actions for a while longer, until finally the man pulled him up into a sitting position on his lap, facing out down the arena and towards the expectant crowd.

In a louder voice the Pit Boss addressed the room. "Does my pet want to prove himself once and for all?"

A reverberant 'yes' echoed around the room, and Vinnie puffed himself up in readiness to meet the offered challenge.

"Will he do whatever it takes to please his master, and earn the reward he so longs for?"

Another yes, and Vinnie nodded his head frantically, his face full of willingness.

"Excellent, excellent" the Pit Boss said at a lower volume. "Bring him in then."

The door at the far end of the room opened again. From his seat on the Pit Boss's lap Vinnie was struggling to see exactly what was coming through the far door, but his nose was much quicker to recognise who it was before him.

Beneath the stench lingering on his freshly rinsed fur Throttle's natural scent still resided, and it carried across the open space to the white mouse's little black nose.

Vinnie sniffed, and curled his lips in disgust. And he wasn't the only one; nearly all the goons and guards did the same thing, although their reaction was undoubtedly to the more pungent aroma reaching their less sensitive nasal receptors.

The tan mouse was greeted not only by this visual reaction, but by an audible one. Loud cries of boos and hisses filled in the shuffled steps he made to the centre of the room, and continued whilst he was tethered there. Through his watering eyes he could just about make out the more horrified look coming from somewhere to his left side, Modo's gentle face betraying his feelings about what he could see standing in front of him.

Throttle was thin, very thin. Not skeletal, as he had been made to eat quite regularly whilst within the castle, but the wasting of his muscles only pronounced the overall long-term loss of body weight. His golden tan fur was tattered and dull, and his eyes that had once been so full of life were now dimmed and filled with suffering. His head was hung low, and his tail was tucked firmly between his legs.

But then something changed in him. His red eyes caught sight of the white-furred mouse ahead of him, and he lifted his head up for a better view.

So there was hope for them after all. Vinnie had made it, he was no longer a slave. He would get them out of here, he knew it. His bro, that magnificent mouse, had risen up above them, and it would be him that saved them all. He had sworn to protect them until the very end, and here it was, the end. This was where he would come through for them, he felt sure of that now.

Catching the look of recognition and optimism on the tan-furred mouse's face was priceless. The Pit Boss leaned his head down and whispered into his slave's ear, and Vinnie stood, nodding, and started toward the mouse in the centre of the room.

Throttle tilted his snout so that he could better see the white Martian standing in front of him. Vinnie had approached and stood slightly to his right, in essence forcing the tan mouse to turn away from the grey. Vinnie could see from the corner of his eyes Modo frantically shaking his head, twitching his tail in agitation, and wordlessly mouthing to the back of their leader's head a warning he would never see.

Vinnie smiled, and squatted in front of the other mouse so that he could peer into those ruby red irises of his. He knew that Throttle would be struggling to focus on him, but would be able to see well enough for this to be worth it.

He pulled back his right arm, and landed a heavy slap on Throttle's expectant face. Tears spring from those ruby eyes from the force of it, and surprise registered in the slap's wake.

From the other end of the room came the white mouse's orders. "Show him who's in control now. Show that worthless piece of filth which one of you is in charge!"

Vinnie obeyed, gladly.

Throttle's pitiful yelps started as Vinnie landed another blow to his face. He screamed as the empty fist was filled with a small rod, and sobbed in despair as his bro, his friend, his comrade, as the mouse that now stood over him cut his skin and beat him into submission.

Throttle cowered, his body begging for mercy. He didn't dare ask for it in words.

But Vinnie wasn't going to give the tan mouse what he had wanted. He knew that in the state he was in, and with the revelation that his younger cousin was now at the head of the chain of command, that Throttle was begging for the kind of mercy that would end it all. Vinnie didn't want to end it, though, he wanted his ex-friend, ex-leader, ex-bro to pay for what he had, or rather hadn't done.

Vinnie wanted Throttle to know that it had been a mistake to allow them all to end up trapped here in the Pits, and an even bigger one to abandon his two bros to their fates. Vinnie wanted to make sure Throttle understood that he would never forgive him for leaving him at the cruel mercy of the Pit Boss, and for allowing him to eventually become what he was now.

_Something more._

This was what he was, Vinnie thought. Something more than the two other mice, something more than their comrade, their friend, or their bro. He was something more, and he was in charge now.

The Pit Boss was calling him again, and he dropped the control stick into one of the guard's hands before making his way back to the throne. His master was pulling him down into his lap, seating him as before facing forwards, and adjusting him so his legs were splayed out over the gigantic ones upon which he sat.

Then the man was reaching down and unbuttoning the tattered trousers his slave wore.

Then he was signalling to the guards to bring the tan mouse closer.

Closer still.

So close that Throttle's face was resting on his master's thighs, his snout between his legs. And between Vinnie's legs.

Vinnie grinned behind his stitches. He knew what his master wanted him to do, he knew how to show the tan mouse who was boss now. And it was perfect, it was just the right way to put a Martian mouse in his place.

From the sidelines Modo watched in silent despair. The guards had told him before they brought him in what his role in all of this would be. He was to watch, as he always had had to, as this once brilliant and strong of leaders was taken down a further notch, and put in his rightful place at the bottom. It hadn't dawned on him that they meant like this.

It reminded him of that day, the last one they had both spent in the original pits. He had been forced to watch then, too, as they had broken apart the last of what his tan-furred friend had once been.

He didn't think there was much left now to break, from the condition that Throttle was already in he didn't see how much further down they could push him. How wrong he had been.

Vinnie's moans of pleasure hammered through his thoughts, and hit him straight in the gut. He felt sick. The monstrous man had twisted his bro beyond all recognition, and there he was  _enjoying_  himself whilst his comrade was humiliated even further.

The Pit Boss was also having a good time of it. The grey mouse could hear his praises directed at the slave in his lap. He was stroking Vinnie all the while that the tan mouse worked on him, and when it was over he embraced the white mouse, laughing, whilst poor Throttle choked in disgust at his feet.

After that Vinnie was given the opportunity to have a go with the clippers, and once the purple scar was uncovered again he was encouraged to go ahead and give his ex-leader his first ever order.

Naturally the Pit Boss had already whispered to him what that would be, and soon Vinnie was enjoying the sight of Throttle's pink tongue shining his long-lost biker boots. The white mouse wondered if Throttle had recognised them yet.  _Perhaps he will when I leave their mark on his backside_ , he mused with malice.

"It feels good, doesn't it my pet? To be the one in control. To be the one giving orders."

The Pit Boss's voice broke him out of his reverie, and the following chortles of glee around him made him turn round with a look of delight on his face. He nodded. He wanted more.

"You have done extremely well, you should be proud of yourself."

Vinnie was, he was very proud. He was practically bursting with it.

"I bet you would like your reward now, wouldn't you my pet?"

Vinnie's heart rate doubled. This was it, this really was it. He nodded. He would very much like his reward.

"Very well, if you promise to do one more thing for me in return."

The Pit Boss laced his last statement with as much honey-sweetness as he could muster. This was his final test for the mouse, a definitive trial of his devotion, and though he knew which outcome he would prefer, either would be just as satisfying.

The mouse would obey, or he wouldn't.

It certainly looked like Vinnie was keen to do whatever it was, though that could all change in an instant. The Pit Boss beckoned the eager mouse once more, and after whispering his last request he pulled the scissors from his pocket.

* * *

Second by second his world was changing.

Vinnie's mouth was finally free. And as an added gesture, a promise of things to come, he had been given his voice back too. Just for long enough to demonstrate his obedience, mind; it was a gift that could be swiftly revoked.

The white mouse hadn't paid much attention to that last bit. He had affirmed his intention to keep his promise, and held his head still whilst the scissors worked around his lips.

And then he had stood, taking the tether chain offered to him, and led the tan mouse from the arena to the prison yard as asked.

He was surprised to see that the slave populous were already back in their cells, and all were peering down to see what it was they were bearing witness to this time. They were given a huge clue as to the nature of the show when they saw the white mouse pulling the tan-furred slave by a chain, and tethering him as he once had been himself between two posts in the yard's centre.

They saw the guards leading the third of the mice back to his cage, and though he looked a little bedraggled, and obviously in some degree of distress, he otherwise seemed unharmed.

They deduced this show was to be all about the tan mouse, and the white. They figured this was to be something quite monumental. Life changing, even.

The rest of the guards and the pit crew soon assembled around the walls and grounds of the prison. Even Wes had by now made an appearance, and if anything he looked more gaunt and paler than ever. He looked rather worried, too.

Not far from the cages stood Flint and his cronies. Compared to the welder they looked flush with health and vigour, and were clearly ecstatic about everything that was going on around them.

Last to appear was the man himself. The Pit Boss. The lord of his domain, and the grand master of all who resided within it.

He gave a gesture, and the fervent cacophony around the prison instantly silenced.

"My slave wishes to demonstrate his unwavering and infinite devotion to his master." He announced.

A ripple of laughter ensued from the pit crew, but soon quietened.

"He has already proved himself to be something already quite... special. I am sure that now I have bestowed him with his most desired gift he will use it well, and he will use it to commit himself to my will, or forever sacrifice it should he fail."

A hundred slaves peered down upon the white mouse. All those eyes watching to see if that one amongst them, that one who had dared to climb above their ranks, would really fulfil this most defining of ultimatums.

The Pit Boss bent down over Vinnie and spoke low into his ear, low enough so that only he, and the tethered mouse below them both, would be able to hear him. "Show him who is his master. Show him, like I showed you."

Throttle might not have known what had happened in that most mysterious of places within the castle. He might not have known that the white mouse had even seen it, let alone been inside. Throttle might not have known that of all the slaves that had ever had the misfortune to be interred down here in the Pits, only Vinnie had set foot inside his master's dorm, and that he, and only he, had ever been taken by him.

But he soon found out what had happened, even if he didn't know the significance. In front of the entire population of the entire underground world, Throttle was raped by his bro.

And Vinnie made sure he did it exactly as his master had to him. Rough, unfeeling, and without any love behind it. Everything that should have been, everything that used to be, everything that once made their joining an honourable and sacred act, the act of Martian bonding, everything about it was absent. Instead Vinnie forced himself upon that tan-furred mouse beneath him, and severed the last thread of love connecting them as brothers.

"Well done" whispered into his ear when he was finished.

Throttle was sobbing, finally and completely broken. Modo was inconsolable, he too also irreparable. Vinnie stood tall, grinning widely, filled with pride.

He had done exactly what his master wanted. He had become what his master had wanted, and though before he hadn't known what he was doing, now he knew his purpose. He knew exactly what he had become.

But a voice behind him in the yard hadn't finished with him yet. The Pit Boss still had that one last request to make of the white mouse, his devoted slave, one last promise that Vinnie was required to keep.  _Or else_.

And in that one instant, that one moment, that one point in the timeline, Vinnie knew that everything had changed.

He had forgotten who he was.


	39. Never give up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well there has to be some hope somewhere in the story... maybe...

The universe is an immense and dangerous world. Somewhere out there in that great space was a particularly perilous corner of infinity, where keeping moving meant survival, and where the imperative was literally to live to fight another day. It was out there, somewhere, that they resided. They hid in the shadows, they ran in the dark. They hopped between one black place to another, emerging into the light only when they had to, hackles raised, spitting fire and ready to fight.

They fought. Time and time again they fought. And after each battle they would melt away again, blending into their background, and merging once more with the vast and open space between one target and the next.

They would linger in these safer places until that time, until the next set of orders came through, and their next mission target was decided.

This was the life of the crews aboard the last of the resistance ships in the Piscean sector. A precarious existence, right on the edge of unpredictability. Or it had been, until the day the signal stopped.

Every morning, Martian time, when they were resting in their dim oases and within range to do so, a single transmission would reach each of these ships in unison. It contained no words, no numbers, no orders nor information. It was just a simple indication, a message that wasn't even a message. All it said was ' _we're still here_ ', and it did so day in day out, for many, many years.

And then, one morning, it didn't come.

* * *

Lights were flashing all over the panel now. The audible alarm was also increasing in intensity, as if the pod itself sensed the urgency of the situation. Certainly the one person left manning the little vessel felt it, and he knew he had to think quickly before they found themselves completely out of time.

Which they pretty much already were. There was only one other option now, and though it wasn't ideal it was either that or just give up.

 _Not until there's nowhere to run_  Firio thought to himself, firm with resolution. As long as the pod still had fuel, and as long as the engines still fired, he would do everything he could to get past that Plutarkian harrier. And pray hard for a miracle, too, because this was really the only chance they had.

There was nowhere left to hide. The moment the yellow-furred alien had elevated the pod beyond the crater and out of the asteroid's shield it had been spotted, and even ducking back down would be pointless now. The larger ship would only have to fire once to vaporise the escape pod and its contents, and probably half the asteroid itself as well. They wouldn't be able to return fire either, as there were no built-in weapons on board the tiny vessel.

_What a dumb idea that was. I thought the idea of these pods was to save lives, not make them more vulnerable to attack._

He almost could have laughed. There he was navigating a defenceless shell, low on fuel, and with the rest of the crew all half-dead from some sort of radiation sickness. Thinking of it that way he could be forgiven for just breaking down in despair and admitting defeat.

Firio glanced at the self-destruct protocol on the computer screen, but dismissed that idea with a snort. He hadn't got this far by taking the easy path, and he certainly wasn't going to finish that way either. Not yet.

Instead the alien pushed down on the throttle, having already pointed the pod towards a gap in the rocky outcrops of the asteroid's surface, and gripped tightly to the joystick ready to navigate his small craft through that tight space. Firio hoped that if he kept low he might squeeze by under the overhead ship, perhaps making it more difficult for it to aim at them, and making it very tricky for them to follow closely. If he managed to get through he would head straight for the moon, and if lucky find some other crater in which to hide. One that didn't have an electromagnetic field to help conceal them... or _kill_ them.

It was a very, very long shot. But what other option did he really have, other than to surrender or die?

The pod surged forward at his command, and with all the focus he could muster in his state of near-exhaustion, Firio guided the little vessel over the asteroid's surface. There was another light flashing on the panel now, the one that said 'incoming signal'.

_They're trying to make contact. They want us to give up._

_Never!_

Firio would never give in to those fish, not after everything he had done in his life to aid the fight against them. He pressed the throttle even further, and the pod shot forward at maximum speed.

The radio on the panel suddenly crackled to life. It seemed his pursuers had been able to tap into their communication frequencies.

 _Stop your escape and give yourselves up! Do it now and you won't be harmed._ A Plutarkian voice. He could tell by the nasal undertones.  _We have you in our sights, you cannot outrun us. You cannot fight us. Surrender before we decide to blast you right out of this sector!_

"Never, never, never!" He yelled at the buzzing speakers. Firio would not give up. He could see the gap in the rocks before him and he was determined they would make it through. He was sure he could do this; he was sure he could get them all to safety. Somehow.

But Firio was being far more optimistic than reality intended, and when it became apparent that he was ignoring the offer that the Plutarkians had given him, the larger ship opened fire. The first shot was obviously just a warning, and struck the rocks well clear of the pod's wake. The next one was a little more threatening. Striking the asteroid just behind the escaping vessel's exhaust gave it quite a hard shaking from the resulting blast.

For a moment Firio lost his balance as the pod shifted on its axis, the pressure wave from the explosion propelling the small craft forward a little and knocking him from his station. In those few seconds he lost his grip on the joystick, and by the time he had hold of it again they were inches away from a collision with the surface.

The yellow-furred alien was an excellent pilot, however, and though he had spent the last few years on the base he had not forgotten the skills he had in handling spacecraft. It was a near-miss, but he managed to get them back on track, and nearly clear from under the belly of the beastly war-craft above them.

And then the third shot fired.

Now the control panel was wailing furiously at him in distress. Warning lights were blaring out from all directions, and from the variety of alarms sounding he could work out that serious damage had been done.

The engine compartment had been hit, and fuel was pouring out of the tanks and into the emptiness of space. Oxygen levels were dropping. It wasn't clear if the air supplies had been struck directly or not, but at the rate they were falling it seemed likely. Another light warned that there was also a fire below deck, although at least the automated extinguishers seemed to be working. One push of a button and a gust of compressed carbon dioxide (taken from the pod's air filtering system) soon took care of that.

But the situation was dire. There was no way of running now, and the only propulsion they had left was that from the hit itself. Firio could only hope the momentum would keep them going forward long enough for the autodestruct to do its job, because that was all he had left to keep them from being captured.

The alien sighed. It wasn't exactly defeat, not in his mind, but it very far from any sort victory. He may well be the only officer left from the base still standing, and it was his responsibility now to ensure that protocol was followed. As brave as he was, and as brave as he had been, turning the key in the control panel and pressing one final switch was the hardest thing that he would ever do. But he had to.

_So close. We were so close. I'm so sorry my friends, I tried. I really did._

His yellow paw reached for the key, and, steadying the trembling in his arm, he slowly turned it until it clicked.

On the screen before him a prompt flashed up.  _Auto-destruct engaged. Do you wish to continue?_ He pressed for yes.

To his amusement a second prompt came up, and in a state of semi-hysteria he had to confirm that ' _yes he really did want to blow up the ship_ '. He suspected that Sol had played a part in engineering that little surprise, and after a few seconds to absorb its absurdity it made him chuckle lightly in disbelief.

And then that one last button lit up in red. Once pressed there was no turning back. It was his final duty to the resistance, and an honourable one at that.

Quickly sobered he smiled, finding some contentment in this one last task.

 _I'm going home_ , he thought to himself.  _I'm finally going home_.

* * *

"Quickly, there isn't much time!"

Though the other ship may have been larger, and though its weapons were vastly more advanced, they at least had the element of surprise.

They were masters of evasion, skilled hunters, experts in everything to do with sneaking up on their prey unnoticed. This was the way they had survived for so long out here, and this was how they would eventually beat those fish at their own dirty tricks.

They too had sat hidden in the debris field of the larger asteroid. They too had waited, and watched, and listened. They too had been patient, and finally for them it had also paid off.

There was the little vessel. It appeared on the horizon of that rocky satellite almost out of nowhere, appearing a mirage in a black desert, one that their sensors had detected days before but their eyes had not yet seen for themselves.

Alas they weren't the only ones lying in wait, and the Plutarkian warship had also spotted the emerging escape pod. It hadn't exactly tried to hide itself away quite so well, being as it was so large; it seemed they had been relying on the stranded crew keeping tabs of their other scout ship doing its rounds, knowing that eventually they would have to show themselves, if only for a brief moment, in order to broadcast their distress signal.

So far the small craft had managed to do so without breaking free of the asteroid's protective shield, but both of the larger waiting ships knew that it was down there somewhere, and that its time was slowly running out.

And from its own vantage point the more stealthy Martian ship could see that moment now drawing ever nearer. The Plutarkians had their sights on the tiny craft, and were already poised to fire. There was no chance the pod would escape on its own; no matter how hard they tried to run they were almost certainly doomed to fail.

But it wasn't on its own, not any more. Ellipsis emerged from the shadows of the debris field behind the fish-led spacecraft, and before it dared to open fire it sent out a signal to the flailing pod.

Don't give up, it said. _We're still here_.


	40. Change of plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know what's going on here don't worry - they don't either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings me up to date with fanfiction.net. I have been having a very long and difficult period dealing with major writer's block, so can't be sure when the next update will be. Please keep your eyes open, and I thank you for reading. 
> 
> Oh and feel free to review, rather than reading and running lol.

Two simple words were all that existed between one life and another. Once they had traversed the gap between lips and ears there was a moment, a few seconds, a mere heartbeat in which he had to make his decision. One time, perhaps not that long ago, it would have been the most difficult of choices that he might have ever had to make. One time he might have struggled, unsure but suspecting that there might be some undesirable outcome to either way he went, and would have battled with himself to rationalise which might be the worse, and which the better. Not that there would have been much distinction, someone was always going to lose out with such alternatives as these.

But today things were different, and there was no moral debate taking place within him. When asked if he would keep his promise, Vinnie didn't need even that brief moment to make up his mind. As far as he was concerned there was only one option, though in reality the real choice had been taken away from him a long, long time ago.

Those two defining words were not the answer, but the question: " _Will you?_ "

And the white mouse had nodded almost before anyone else had even heard it. Prior to leaving the arena the Pit Boss had already whispered to him what this last promise would be, and that all he had to do was re-confirm it once asked. Would Vinnie obey his master's wishes, whatever they might be, for the entirety of the rest of his life?

The man had been very clever with his choice of words. He knew that his slave was so consumed by his needs that he wouldn't take notice of the details of the question, and that by phrasing it so articulately there really would be no wriggle room when that crucial point finally arrived.

Vinnie naturally assumed that that had just happened, and feeling that it hadn't been anywhere near so difficult as he might have imagined it to be, was quite relaxed (albeit eager) about his affirmation. Now he could finally be free, he thought. Now he was no longer just a slave, but  _something more_.

The Pit Boss was clearly pleased with him, and the mouse grinned happily as he was enveloped by the man's weighty embrace. It felt so good to do as the man wanted; no matter how awful the task the praise he got from obeying somehow negated the wrongness of it. He was more than willing to keep his promise to his master if it meant being rewarded with affection.

"Good boy" his master murmured, a hint of amusement lacing his words. "Now are you ready to put that extra treat I gave you to good use?"

Knowing that the man meant the gift of his voice, Vinnie responded in the like.

"Yes master."

It had been so long since Vinnie had spoken his words came out as little more than a hoarse croak. Even several attempts to clear his throat beforehand didn't seem to help much, and he wondered a little if it was possible to forget how to speak. Though he also suspected he was about to be given plenty of time to practice.

The first order Vinnie had been authorized to give had been merely a gesture, an indication to the tan mouse of what he wanted him to do – in this case, pointing to his boots and pushing Throttle's head downwards - as his mouth had not yet been free at that point. But now that the stitches were gone, and that he was allowed, his second command was to be verbal, and was to be given loud and clear for all around to hear. And so he waited to be told what exactly it was to be.

And waited.

After a minute or two of silence Vinnie was still waiting. He looked up inquisitively at the Pit Boss, searching his face cautiously for the answer as to what his orders were. When nothing was forthcoming the mouse began speculating, somewhat nervously, about the long delay. He wondered if the man was giving him time to get his vocal chords in order, seeing as he had to project his voice beyond where a whisper would carry. Vinnie cleared his throat a few more times, hoping that might indicate that he was indeed ready.

Still nothing.

This was strange. The Pit Boss had certainly seemed excited about the whole thing a few moments ago, but now the white mouse could detect a trace of uncertainty on the man's bloated features. Vinnie gulped, worrying that he might have changed his mind, that he didn't want the mouse to be giving orders after all. Or that he himself had done something to displease him, though he couldn't fathom what. Had he not just committed himself to his master? Is that not what the man had wanted?  _Or maybe he hasn't decided what he wants me to do yet?_  He really hoped this was just the case.

Everyone in the prison was staring at their ruler now, all waiting for him to do or say something. No one dared move or make a sound themselves. The gap in activity seemed to go on forever, and Vinnie was starting to think perhaps he should give the man a little nudge. He pressed his nose gently into his master's chest, uttering the tiniest of squeaks of encouragement as he did so. The Pit boss appeared to hardly even notice. Something was definitely not quite right.

Vinnie detected that the man was sweating more than normal, his heart rate somewhat elevated, and his breathing rate ever so slightly raised. To the waiting mouse it seemed like his master was so overcome with excitement he could barely move, and it made him feel all the more anxious about what was to come next. Was this order he was to give really that much of a big deal? Or so terrible?

Eventually the long pause was broken; the hulking figure above him suddenly ended the silence by reaching for his radio, and quietly muttering something into it. Vinnie peeked up at him again questioningly, having not been able to make out fully what was said, but all the Pit Boss did in response was to wave his hand at his crew, then grab hold of him by the back of his metal collar and begin to walk quickly towards the castle.

The white mouse was perplexed by this abrupt change in situation. Apparently many of the crew were too. For once the silent signal their boss gave them did not elicit an immediate understanding of his requirements.

"What's up boss? Thought you wanted us all here for some fun with that mouse." Flint was striding alongside them now, trying to keep up with the fast pace the Pit Boss was setting, but equally trying to not let any of his men see the confusion on his face. He wasn't stupid enough to look like he didn't know what was going on, and so kept his enquiries at a low volume.

"I have personal matters to attend to" the Pit Boss stated in reply, sounding slightly puffed. "If your men need an outlet for their frustrations, use someone else for the time being. Save the rat for later."

"Sure thing boss, but... what shall we do with him in the mean time?"

"Just leave him, he isn't going anywhere."

Flint flashed a goofy smile, relieved, but withheld the urge to openly snigger. The day's entertainment wasn't cancelled, just delayed it seemed.

"On second thoughts..." the Pit Boss interrupted his head goon's gleeful imaginings of what was to come, "...get our resident mouse doctor to fix him up a bit. Would be nice if the rat was functioning enough to  _fully_  appreciate his true worth."

Flint nodded, his enthusiasm building. "But err, leave him where he is, right?"

The Pit Boss had already reached the steps of the castle, and answered with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Right now his rat-slave's treatment was not the top of his list of concerns. He had much more pressing issues to address, and his gesture to his subordinate said as much.

"Just get it done, Flint" was all he said, before dragging his white-furred slave through the wooden doors with him.

The head goon shrugged to himself. Watching Wes play nurse to the other mouse prisoner would be entertaining enough in itself, but afterwards would be  _even better_. The only downside was that they would have to do it in private. Though by the state his men were currently in, it would be quite unlikely that the rest of the prison wouldn't know what was happening in the back room of the little workshop.

* * *

Being propelled up the great stone staircase in the centre of the castle's entrance hall gave Vinnie an instant indication as to where he was being taken. The Pit Boss didn't normally retire to his quarters on a whim, not right in the middle of doing something else anyway, and certainly not when all eyes were on him and something very important was going on.

The speed at which the man was walking gave a sense of urgency that the white mouse had not detected in his master before. Even when it was late in the day, and the man clearly desired time alone upstairs with his mouse slave, he would not be rushed to finish up whatever else was on his agenda. There were times Vinnie had felt that he was to be imminently whisked away, only to end up waiting around for an hour or so whilst the Pit Boss discussed something completely random, and probably relatively boring, with a late-reporting member of his crew.

In fact today's sudden change in character, on top of the hurry the man seemed to be in, was starting to make Vinnie feel quite uneasy. Surely the man could have waited until later this evening to do this? he thought. Even he had noticed the confused looks some of the crew had been giving them as they exited the prison yard. Flint's hushed questions had been somewhat telling too.

The Pit Boss really was acting strangely.

Whilst he wasn't at all surprised to find himself being pushed through the man's bedroom door, and subsequently thrown bodily onto the large double bed, Vinnie did startle when he realised that in fact this time they were not alone.

"You really need to get this under control, it's going to kill you unless you do something. You can't ignore it forever."

The Pit's doctor was already wrapping a large Velcro cuff around the larger man's upper arm, and the Pit Boss grunted a little as he half slumped, half sat on the edge of the bed. Vinnie had never seen him looking so exhausted.

"Pressure's normal, but that doesn't mean you don't need to take action. Preferably sooner, rather than later."

"I already told you what I want, doc..." the Pit Boss growled breathlessly, "...You know what I called you here for. Can it be done?"

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose slightly, as if irritated. "Yes, it can be done. I'm assuming you have already made at least  _some_  preparations?"

Only half satisfied by the Pit Boss's firm nod, the doctor sighed and pulled out a small vial from his bag, plus a syringe and hypodermic needle. "This injection will keep things in order for now. I suggest you get a move on with your plan, or else the next time you call me like this I will be insisting that you..."

"No, I already said I didn't want that. Stick to the plan doc, it's what we agreed on."

The medic huffed in disapproval, jabbing the needle deep into the Pit Boss's left arm.

"Fine. Well I guess we better get started then."

From his position lying on the bed behind them, Vinnie listened to the conversation wide eyed, and curious. He wondered what exactly the Pit Boss needed the doc for, and what exactly that injection he gave him did. He wondered if anyone else down here knew about this, whatever it was. Was his master sick? What was this plan they had to help him? Was it some kind of treatment? A cure?

Did it have anything to do with him?

Almost in answer to that very thought the two men turned their attentions to the white-furred figure listening in on their discussion. Vinnie cringed a little, recognising a look on his master's face that he had seen many times in recent weeks. Only now it was starting to take meaning beyond what he had initially imagined.

The Pit Boss broke into a stern, dangerous-looking smile.

"That's right, little mouse. Are you ready to do what your master wants of you? Are you ready to serve him  _for the rest of your life_?"

Vinnie squeaked timidly, quelling under the intensity of the stare, and the question. He realised he had no choice now but to consent.

* * *

Back in the prison yard, Modo was watching sadly as his bro yelped and whimpered and cried, the pain from his wounds insuppressible as they were cleansed. Wes was doing his best to get it over with as quick as possible, whilst also trying his hardest to make a thorough job of removing the dirt festering in the cuts. With no anaesthetic to ease the process, it wasn't the easiest, or more pleasant of tasks to accomplish.

Throttle looked just about ready to collapse from his agony when finally the welder straightened up from his work.

"That's the best I can do right now, son" he murmured, gently cupping Throttle's trembling jaw in his hand. Pain and injury were only two of the issues that needed urgent attention in this mouse. "The guards have been told to give you food and water, I highly suggest you take it."

Sighing, Wes shook his head as he stood, not entirely certain that recommending the mouse do what he can to stay alive really was the best thing for him. But he had orders, and with the current mood in the prison it really was not wise for him to do otherwise.

Modo just caught his weary sideways glance as he turned to leave. It was the sort of look that told him something - something he already knew deep inside. Something important. Something that he was still having difficulty in figuring out, let alone accepting.

Wes soon disappeared beyond the edge of the prison boundary, and Modo noticed the small group of guards that also seemed to melt away from where they had been lingering, following the welder over the crest that led towards the workshop. They had been watching the man carry out his duties as mouse medic from a distance, though not so far away that their sarcastic jeers were inaudible. Flint had clearly promised them something far more entertaining.

The gentle grey mouse closed his eyes and turned away, not wanting to imagine what was almost certainly in store for Wes. When he opened them again he found his gaze meeting that of his friend's, and seeing the hopelessness behind those dim, red eyes, and observing the recognition in them – of himself, and of the awful situation they were once again both in – Modo finally understood what that important something he knew actually meant.

* * *

_There, there, little mouse. It won't be so bad. You're going to be of special service to your master; it's your final reward for being such a good boy._

Vinnie came to with a start. He hadn't remembered drifting off, but in the end even as anxious as he had been about what his new role was to be, he had been so tired – and so warm and well fed – that sleep had eventually seized him. But those haunting words had not left him as he slept, and his dreams were restless and plagued with horrifying images: dark enclosed spaces, his body changing, him unable to move, unable to free himself, unable to stop what they were making him do - and doing to him.

He gasped, letting loose a few tears as the images from his nightmares came back to him. It was a little more than upsetting what his master and the doctor had planned for him, considering how hard he had worked to get where he was. The thought of it made him whimper fretfully out loud, and he fought to control the emotions he was feeling from overwhelming his senses completely.

And then he felt those arms tighten around his weary, frightened body once again, and the soothing words and gentle touch given in order to settle him. Conditioned as he was, he responded to the actions as he was meant to, and soon the Pit Boss had his mouse slave calmed in the cradle of his lap, and back to his duties once more.


End file.
